Russian Twilight
by madame.alexandra
Summary: The Czech Republic, Russia, Serbia, and ultimately, Paris again. Leroy Jethro Gibbs and Jenny Shepard are more lovers than partners, and yet they still have a job to do-a job that may very well tear them apart. This is their story...further continued.
1. Prologue: Identity

_A/N: Thank to A'serene, who is still my faithful beta (even when I freak out)_

_We begin with a prologue. The pace of this installment kicks off fast, and winds down. Technically (and literaturely) speaking, it is the "Falling Action" of the pyramid, __Probie Days__ being the "Rising Action" and __Paris Nights,__ the "Climax". _

_We start Russian Twilight as I start back to school. I pledge to keep up on updates as much as possibly--with encouagement from you;) Enjoy the story!_

* * *

In the late night, amidst the relentless snow, wind, and bone-chilling cold of Russia, a lone figure made her way down the ice-stricken street of St. Petersburg, for once oblivious to the beauty and sheer elegance of the old city.

She was consumed by the chill in her blood, the fear that seemed to chase her wherever she went, and the lurking feeling in her stomach that made her sick. She felt like she was drowning in this, unable to tell who she was anymore, so caught up.

She was consumed.

Alone in the sleeping city, at this time of night, she found herself thinking for once not of the job, not of guns and big arms deals, or the next move, but instead of warm arms and comforting lips. For the first time in a while all she cared about was slipping into bed and forgetting this operation and the stress and heartache it wrought, even if _he_ knew nothing of what plagued her.

Her jaw set firmly, and her well-loved, soft as butter leather coat buttoned tight against the biting wind and snow, Tatiana Ivanovich traipsed gracefully through treacherous terrain to the gleaming hotel that was her destination, her eyes sharp on her surroundings, sure she wasn't being followed.

She was tuned to every sound, keenly aware of the weapon at her lower back and the knife tucked into her sleek, tightly fit boot, so thin not even the man she'd been stalking, the one she'd been precariously close to just moments ago, didn't even suspect.

She was almost on the brink of insanity. She was pushing the edges of her limits, desperate to breathe and so determined to pull this off, the one thing that would catapult her right to where she needed to be to execute her revenge.

Her hand shaking, just barely noticeable, she reached up to tuck a strand of short, styled black hair behind her ear as she stepped up the fancy hotel walkway, the heels of her killer boots clicking dangerously.

A finely dressed concierge opened the door for her, and in clipped, cool Russian she thanked him, careful not to meet his eyes, treating him as if he were no better than the ground she walked on.

The lobby was blissfully empty, apart from a few watchful and lingering employees, and as she stepped into the gold-plated elevator, she almost lost her resolve and gave in to the tears that clogged her head, almost collapsed into the corner and fell apart.

But that wouldn't be prudent. God knows who could be watching at any moment. There was no safety until—

Her footsteps quickened as the elevator reached her floor, the very top, secluded room and she went straight to her door, looking only in front of her.

Her fingers shook as she held the key in her hand, lingering, hesitating outside the door. She had done what she had been ordered to do—anything for the job, anything. She had made a decision and it still stung to the core now, it hurt almost like nothing else ever would.

She had barely thought twice at the time, so wrapped up in Tatiana Ivanovich, so muddled in whom she was and whom she was supposed to be. It had been necessary. She had gotten the Intel at all costs.

Her jaw tightened as she unlocked the door, whispering a few words in French as she entered, a beacon that it was her to her partner. She was back late, she knew, and he would be worried. He was so worried about her now.

She heard him ask her name, and as she shut the door, leaned back heavily against it, reached up, and ripped the black wig from her hair, almost crying in relief as _her_ long, red curls spilled down her shoulders.

"Jen," he breathed, and he was in front of her in a second, touching her face and her shoulder.

"I can't do this anymore, Jethro," she said hoarsely, tears falling from her eyes. It didn't matter how much she hated crying and how long it had been since she had allowed herself to.

"What is it? What happened?" he asked, crouching down as she slid to the floor, concern etched in the lines of his face and in his skin. "Jenny?" he questioned gently.

She just shook her head, throwing the wig as far away as possible.

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"Did he hurt you?" Jethro asked, his voice low and deadly.

She raised her eyes to him expressionlessly. She had done this to herself. She had done this to Jethro. It was a numb, black memory that she filed away. Silently, she shook her head 'no', willing him to just accept it for what it was.

He studied her and nodded briefly; she saw in his eyes that he knew there was something more.

He eased onto his knees and reached out to her, pulling her close and holding her head against his shoulder. He put a hand in her hair, comforting her, always there with such a soothing touch. She relaxed into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"I hate it here," she said vehemently. "I hate this goddamn cold and this evil city," her voice shook, and he knew how much this was getting to her. Eating at her.

There was pleasure, too much vindictive, misplaced pleasure, in what he eased her pain with, in what he was able to tell her.

"We're done, Jen," he said a little gruffly.

She stilled in his arms, hardly breathing, her skin still so cold.

"Tonight?" she whispered, barely audible, her voice so full of emotion.

He placed his warm lips next to her ear and kissed her gently.

"Decker is already on the move," he murmured.

She drew back some, her always beautiful, always sharp emerald eyes meeting his crystal-like blue ones, her lips parted.

"Svetlana's guards are dead," he said blandly, and she didn't have to ask how he knew. He would have killed them after leaving her, after their meeting, after drugging whatever she'd been drinking.

"Anatoly is alone," Jenny said, and added in a sickened whisper, "asleep."

There was no need to tell him how she had managed to leave him asleep. She hardly expected him to ask.

Jethro nodded to her, reaching out again to touch his face, caress the arch of her neck.

"When it's done," he began, but she cut him off, well-versed in the protocol, her words almost mechanic as she repeated back the orders:

"Call it in, do not wait for Decker or you; get the hell out of Russia."

He looked into her eyes, smiling a little. She was so good at what they did.

"Paris," he murmured, and she nodded, her agreement firm.

"I'll meet you in Paris," she repeated.

She was standing, and he was following to, taking his coat from a chair near them, and the old fedora she'd bought so long ago in London, before their relationship had been a flicker in their eyes.

"Get out clean, Jen," he warned, "Clean as a whistle, or we're all fucked."

She just glared, on the edge of her breaking point.

She drew her to him and kissed him hard, unbridled, her hand holding him to her at the back of his neck, feeling his life and his pulse through his carotid artery. God, she loved how he tasted, how he smelled. How warm he was.

The kiss was broken, and he touched her lips, reaching for the door behind her.

"You know the word," he stated, and in her impressive heels, she leaned up just enough to be able to whisper in his ear:

"Oshimaida."

And they were gone.

* * *

_Tell me what you think._

_-Alexandra_


	2. Prague, Motorcycles, and Grand Larceny

_A/N: Thanks to A'serene._

_~I hope all of you know how awesome you made me feel with your reviews. Everyone noted how 'dark' and 'angsty' it seemed, and that is *exactly* what it was supposed to convey, so I feel like I accomplished something, and that's always nice as a writer, you know ;) And whoever (I apologize for not remembering) said it was like a "noir film" made my entire life complete. _

_I would also like to say (and I swear, the long A/Ns stop after this chapter) I failed at spelling 'Oshimaida', apparently, as pointed out by two people. It took two mentions for me to look it up and then, being a perfectionist, I freaked out. So, that's been fixed. _

_Note: This is "present time", a rewind from the Prologue. _

**

* * *

**

The Czech Republic was a welcome change from the ceaseless cold of Russia. There was at least some warmth to the air here as it neared April, where in Russia, the weather still chilled to the bone.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs leaned against the wall in a dark alley, hands in his pockets; a jacket zipped up around his now slightly wrinkled suit. The streets of Prague around him were riddled with litter, the occasional drunk, and the general dregs of society that ran the gamut from high class to the scum of the earth.

Good thing none of them had a care for a curiously clean American lurking in one of the dingiest alleys nearest to the _Narodni Technicke Muzeum_.

He looked at the helmet in his hand, holding it casually, one foot propped behind him on the crumbling stonewall. Prague was an old city, possessive of an air of elegance and at the same time a slum-like quality.

She found it beautiful, but to him it had nothing on Paris.

A skittering in the dark close to him drew his attention, and his senses relaxed when he noticed it was a rat, thwarted in its pursuit of garbage as a few boxed tumbled down to scare it away. Another noise, far more troubling, coaxed his attention back.

An alarm, it sounded like.

He pushed off the wall, his hand in his pocket, keys in his hand. His cell phone vibrated in his jacket and he had it against his ear in seconds.

"It might be a good idea to start the engine," was all she said, and he swore she sounded slightly amused. Cursing, he snapped his phone shut, and heard an identical snap from the alleyway entrance.

Her laughter reached him as the glow of her phone was extinguished and gravel crunched under her feet in the dim alley.

As Jenny Shepard emerged from the inky night, the front of her cream-white leather coat hanging open to reveal the silver dress she still wore from earlier this evening, he glared, thrusting out the helmet in his hand.

"I don't think so," she hissed, giving it a disdainful look.

He just threw it, and she caught it obligingly, a look of distaste in her eyes.

"You set the alarms off?" he growled, his keys in the ignition. He threw one leg over the seat of the motorcycle, his scowl directed straight at her.

"Motion sensors," she responded, one hand in her pocket ominously, fingering her prize, "Hit them by a hair—"

"Get on the bike," he snapped, and she moved quickly, standing next to the motorcycle that she still admired him for acquiring out of nowhere, her hand on the seat reverently. "Dammit, Jen," he cursed, at the thought of authorities.

"I'm not an acrobat," she growled, straddling the seat behind him, chucking the helmet in her hands to the trash bin near to them. He rolled his eyes at the crash that resounded.

"I'll keep that in mind the next time we're in bed—"

"DRIVE," she ordered, her palm colliding with the back of his head to interrupt him. He grinned as Jenny's dangerously sharp high heel kicked the motorcycle's stand up and he took off out of the alley, high-tailing it as far away from Prague's Museum of Technology as was possible.

He fought to keep his vision clear as the wind whipped past his face, drying his eyes and sending chills up his spine. Jenny's arms tightened around his waist and she moved her hands inside his jacket, fingers twisting into his shirt. She rested her chin on his shoulder, her body warm against his.

Traffic was risky to navigate, but it was much easier to do on a thin, remarkably fast motorcycle than in a car. They had a while to go back to the run down projects they were quartered in at a less than savory part of town. Motorcycles were more than common in Prague, hence his choice of vehicle: they would hardly draw attention.

Jenny's hair, yanked loose from whatever had been keeping it back by the high speed, blew into his face and with it, the intoxicating smell of her, though neither was as distracting as the less-than-chaste kiss she graced his neck with as she held tighter, exhilarated by the ride.

She squealed and turned her face into his neck as he narrowly avoided a few irregularly parked cars and she pinched him in the ribs when she felt the vibration of his laughter, realizing he'd done it one purpose.

He thought he was a pro with this death trap, and though it made her adrenaline rush more than anything, she was still half-terrified he was going to kill them both.

Jenny felt the slim, rectangular case she'd successfully stolen from the Museum hitting against her thigh in the pocket of her coat and she concentrated on it, glad the pocket was tightly zipped shut. The device was valuable, more valuable than a few people's lives at this moment and instrumental in their next operational move.

It was a small wonder she'd succeeded in acquiring it, particularly considering the James Bond-esque moves she'd just made.

Jethro didn't have to know about those, though. She doubted she'd be able to hide the worryingly deep gash on her knee, though. He'd be sure to freak out about that.

Street signs and billboards in blurs of bright color and Czech language breezed by as they made their way through the narrow streets, turning onto cobblestone that made for a less comfortable ride and more bumping around. This route would take them out of the center of the city and towards the undesirable part of town they were in.

A few police sirens went off, far in the distance, and Jenny smirked, pressing closer to Jethro and smirking against his neck. If this wasn't damn impressive, she didn't know what was.

Jethro set his jaw as navigation became more difficult; junk was strewn everywhere in the projects of Prague; abandoned cars, broken down appliances, dead animals—anything one could think of. He hardly managed to avoid a pile of destroyed brick on the last turn before their run down apartments appeared in his line of sight and he pushed the motorcycle faster until he was jerking to a skidding stop next to the other cars and bikes out back.

Jenny released him and was stumbling off as he kicked the stand down, planting it firmly against the broken concrete. She turned, her hand running through her hair as she shook it from the elastic she was rolling onto her wrist.

The wicked grin on her face clearly read 'come get me'.

He snapped off his gloves and caught up to her, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her close against the back wall of the building, lips meeting hers almost triumphantly. She pulled him toward her roughly, her breath catching when her back hit the wall, the noise and engine of the motorcycle still reverberating through her blood.

He kissed her until she couldn't breathe and then drew back, his hand sneaking up her leg to the teasingly short hem of her dress. Jenny closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the brick, biting her lip. He wrapped his hand around her arm and pulled her against him, backing towards the fire escape.

Jenny brought up her hand to muffle a laugh, considering the late hour, as she tried her best not to fall as they navigated the fire escape up to the third floor. She stepped into their outdoor hallway and pulled him close by the collar, pressing hot, urgent kisses against his lips and jaw.

He braced his arm on the wall behind her, dropping his mouth to her neck and scraping his teeth against her shoulder as she lifted the apartment key from his pants pocket, expertly reaching to her left and maneuvering the door open.

Jethro dragged her in, pushed it shut forcefully, and slammed her against it, pinning her hands to the door with his. He pressed his lips against hers, giving her a slow, dizzying kiss while his fingers intertwined with hers, his body fitting so perfectly against hers.

Then his hands slipped down her arms and to the collar of her leather coat, which he fingered with a proud smirk before shoving it backwards off her shoulders, leaving her in that sinful, strapless silver number that barely had enough material to call it a _dress_.

She let herself laugh this time, meeting his lips in swift, needy kisses as she ran the zipper down his jacket and shucked it off, his suit jacket following it to the floor seconds later. Next her fingers where tackling the buttons down his white shirt and loosening his tie from his neck, exposing his skin to her tongue and teeth.

Jethro groaned at the contact, eager hands at her back rending the stiff buttons of her dress loose and carelessly shimmying it down, leaving her in the matched set of black lace strapless lingerie that she'd hidden.

He summoned enough finesse to run his hand reverently and caressingly over her spine and then around to her stomach, feeling her muscles tighten for him as his fingers trailed lower to the thin lace covering her and the inside of her thighs.

"Jethro," she breathed, arching into his hand, brushing her lips over his now bare shoulder and lower onto his chest, her nails running light marks down his chest to his pants, weaving around his to unbutton and unzip.

"Bed?"

"Forget it."

He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her head hitting the door as he slipped into her and she dug her nails into his shoulder, overcome with the pleasure. He grabbed her wrist in his hand, pressed it into the door, the grip tight and uncomfortable, slick.

His fingers dug into her ribs as, he thrust into her again, groaning her name. She drew her lip into her mouth and arched into him, the heat and heaviness coiled in her stomach begging for release. He kept moving, kept pushing her, her name spilling from his lips in a jumble of words, until she tightened around him and her moans broke into a sharp cry when the climax crashed over her.

He pulled her close and shuddered, his lips seeking hers desperately, mumbling her name and a stew of other words she liked to hear. His grip on her wrist relaxed yet she still held onto his hand, stroking his palm.

It was a good few moments before she trusted herself to stand.

He moved his hand from her hip to her face as she untangled her legs, brushing tangled hair away from her cheek. He loved her like this; he loved this look in her eyes, the bitten, seductive part of her lips.

"I'm never getting rid of that motorcycle," he swore in a low voice.

Jenny laughed softly.

Jethro grinned and kissed her again, pulling their hands away from the door and stroking the pulse in her wrist gently, bringing it up to kiss the place where he knew bruises would bloom later. She smiled languidly and took a deep breath, regaining her composure.

Jethro trailed after-thought kisses down her throat and shoulder, his eyes roaming her, and that's when he saw the wound just below her knee, a cut with blood smeared about it that he damn well should have noticed even with her dress on.

She knew he'd spotted it when he pulled back suddenly, and rolled her eyes to herself.

"It's a scratch," she said, trying to pull his attention back to her. He was already crouching down though, and by grip on her hand, taking her with him.

"You're bleeding," he pointed out.

"Is that what the red stuff is?" she responded with soft sarcasm. He shot her a look and she touched his face. "It's nothing."

"What happened?"

"I didn't mention the motion sensors had back up?" she asked innocently.

"Jen," he demanded.

"I lost an argument with the metal cage around one of the older exhibits," she told him mildly, running a soft hand over the gash.

He muttered something and examined the cut, reluctantly admitting that she was right, and it was nothing. He looked up at her, determined to at least care more than just blowing it off. It irked him that in his rush to possess her he hadn't noticed she was hurt.

"It needs to be cleaned," he said gruffly.

She gave him a look through her abundant eyelashes.

"Then let's get in the shower."

He smiled, unable to deny her that.

"Callan will be here in an hour," he stated, glancing at the watch still secure on his wrist. She ran her hand over it with a smirk.

"Fifty minutes," she corrected, alluding mockingly to the time they'd _wasted_. He smirked and nodded in agreement, helping her up with him. He left their clothes in haphazard distress on the floor, not bothered to pick them up right now.

The shower was unbecoming at best, and Jenny was comically afraid to utilize it alone. Jethro picked up a few clean towels from the cleaning service from the bed as he followed Jenny, shutting the door tightly behind them for a steamy clean up.

They had been in the Czech Republic for three days.

* * *

Jenny sat on the mattress they called bed, her muscles relaxed, finally warm for what seemed like the first time in forever, methodically brushing knots out of her drying hair, watching Jethro as he moved around the room, toweling his hair and rummaging for lounge clothes.

They had one suitcase each, the bare minimum of things, though it was surprising how much they had managed to bring just in case. Most of what they owned, and everything they had in Paris, was safe in a St. Petersburg hotel, where they were working on the current operation.

They had been in St. Petersburg almost a month when Agent Callan had given the all-go for the Russian Operation to start, at which point Decker had called in to order them to the Czech Republic where they would set things in motion.

Where it got dangerous.

They'd left Positano halfway through January, when Jethro was healed completely and Decker had things in place. The weeks after were spent in Moscow, then Volgograd, and ultimately Chechnya, working under cover with Decker to glean information and start rumors. Their play hadn't been able to start until Agent Callan finished his, which was in turn, vital to theirs. It was a tangled web that she thought seemed easy to get lost in, so different from Paris already.

So cold, everywhere, and all the time.

Jethro chucked something on the mattress in front of her, amidst the two tangled, thin blankets, and she looked at it expressionlessly, the brush stuck against a particularly troublesome knot in her thick hair.

He pulled a t-shirt and then a sweatshirt over his head and sat down close to her, stretching out in front of her in the scant space and picking up the rectangular case again with interest. She watched him turn the notch that opened it and look mildly at the flash drive inside, a flash drive that had been hidden innocently with a display of modern computers in the Prague museum.

Not anymore.

The flash drive contained the bank accounts and classified monetary information pertaining to a Russian spy ring whose reach sprawled across Europe from Russia to France. A ring they happened to be infiltrating. Valuable and highly coveted, the drive had been hidden in the obscure museum by one of the top ranking Russians who _generously_ funded Prague's arts.

The earlier part of their evening has been spent at stiff-necked, fancy benefit at the museum, where she and Jethro had been engaging in recon, scouting out the place and working how she'd pull off the thievery. It was exciting in a death-if-you-fail kind of way. It was vital that she kept herself from being suspected, as she would be slipping in the highest ranks of the ring they were currently screwing over.

Callan's arrival would get them started on coordinating the next necessary movie.

"Lot of fuss over something this small," Jethro said gruffly, closing the box and pushing it away carelessly.

Jenny smiled at his utter ignorance of technology and tossed her brush away, giving up and instead running her hands through her hair freely.

"Lot of valuable information on that small _thing_," she responded.

He just grunted and rolled towards her, taking her am and pulling her down beside him. She smiled comfortable and allowed him to put his arm around her, amused with how he struggled to fit on the barely big enough mattress at his angle.

"You warm?" he asked, his hand falling to trace circles on her leg, exposed to him by shorts for the first time since Positano. She nodded, rolling her neck to soothe the muscles and closing her eyes to rest. There hadn't been much sleep in the past days, due to the cramped room and even more cramped bed.

He frowned at her smile and shifted around, trying to make her scoot over. She refused to budge, laughing and snuggling closer, content to crowd him even more.

"At least the bed's roomy in St. Petersburg," he growled, flopping onto his back. This resulted in him having a leg and a shoulder hanging off the mattress.

"That's okay, we just use the door here," Jenny teased wickedly. He laughed, turning his head to look at her. She wrinkled her nose, more relaxed than he'd seen her in a week or so now. He was glad of it. She was uptight during most of this under cover stuff.

A soft, repetitive rapping sounded at the door.

"Speaking of the door," she mumbled, sitting up as Jethro stood swiftly and approached it. She sat back against the wall, reaching to the floor beside her to finger her gun casually, watching Jethro take a look through the peephole.

"Callan," he grunted, and she eased her grip on the gun, stretching one leg out in front of her, the box containing the flash drive in her hand. Jethro opened the door to Agent Callan, whom he had; Jenny found out a few days ago, known before he even met her.

"Damn nice job," Callan said with a sly smile, as he slipped past Jethro into the dingy room.

"You sound surprised," Jenny remarked smartly from the bed, and Jethro smirked from the doorway as he was closing the door, always enjoying it when someone met Jenny for the first time. Callan backtracked a little.

"Not at all," he said, stopping and looking at her curiously. "Jenny Shepard?" he asked.

"Guilty," she replied, inclining her head a little. She extended her free hand and shook Callan's firmly.

"G Callan," he said, "And—"

"You don't know what the G stands for," Jenny interrupted uncaringly, with a small smile, "I know who you are, Callan."

"I'm appropriately impressed," he responded, amused, "How ya been, Jethro?" he asked, turning to the older man and clapping him on the back.

"Been divorced," Jethro responded with a growl.

"Again?" Callan whistled, "Tough luck, pal—that mean the fox is free?" he teased slyly, and Jenny wondered vaguely if they were talking about Diane. Jethro gave Callan a pained look.

"Get in line," he growled, and Jenny snorted, aware he was referring to Fornell. It really was too bad all these men were doomed to find Diane so fatally attractive.

"Let's dispense with the pleasantries then, eh, get to business?" Callan suggested, looking around the room. "Uh, chairs?" he asked.

Jethro dropped to the mattress, sitting on the edge of it, away from Jenny's relaxed position against the wall.

"Floor," he corrected sternly, gesturing with a flourish.

Callan gave it a distasteful look and sat down, crossing his legs. His eyes went to Jenny, who had decided to play with the rectangular box nonchalantly to draw his attention to it. Jethro watched the other man like a hawk, attempting to read his thoughts while Callan's eyes were on Jenny.

"Just what the doctor ordered," he said lightly, reaching for it. Jethro watched as Jenny pulled it towards her casually, removing it from Callan's arms' reach. Callan took an amused glance back at Jethro and let his hand drop.

"First, the Op," Jenny said silkily. She may trust Callan as an NCIS agent, but she didn't know him, and she wanted to know the finer details about what was about to go down. She knew what she had in her hand was bait, and in the end, it couldn't be allowed out of her possession, but she wanted the in and out of the plan.

"Fair enough, Madame," he said gallantly, and Jenny smirked.

"The recipient of this flash drive is Konstantin Pretskaya, head of the Chechnyan arm of our mutual friends of the Russian Arms ring. He also happens to be the financer of most of the ring, and the keeper of the records, so to speak," Callan said, his voice low and quick, careful of anyone who may be listening.

Jenny listened carefully, her eyes locked on Callan, while Jethro did the same, memorizing every word.

"I've been climbing up the ranks of his ring, playing the sleazy, untrustworthy varmint," here Callan smiled, and Jethro snorted derisively, "The objective has been to turn him. We need him to turn over the records he's got on all of your targets' former operations, buyers, etc. in order for you to be informed and get the show on the road, and it's been a hell of a job. But Pretskaya likes money, almost as much as he likes power, and as patriotic and _Russian_ as he is, he's been decadently tempted by what I've been able to bribe him with—not to mention a little something I wrangled out of the Israelis—"

"Not Mossad?" scoffed Jenny.

Callan nodded, and Jenny was impressed, though skeptical.

"One of theirs owed me," he said, savoring the idea, "Saved his ass on an Op in Iran two years ago. Anyway," Callan moved on, drawing his eyes away from Jenny's probing glare, "It came down to me making good on the bribe I promised, as well as delivering to him that particular drive."

"The bank accounts and routing numbers," Jenny murmured.

Callan nodded.

"Don't ask why the backup is all being hidden in Prague, I don't know, but it will hit the ring hard if he gets his hands on it. Only a select few know the codes, and many need access. There will be a break down if this information goes rogue, and he'll have too much power over his superiors, which they won't want. Pretskaya is exchanging what we need," Callan snatched the drive from Jenny with a triumphant smile, "for this."

"And yet we don't let him have it," Jenny mused, giving Callan a look.

"'Course not," he scoffed, "Much too dangerous for a terrorist to have this, we need it to remain where we've got eyes, hence the next part of the operation," Callan hesitated as he looked at them, returning the flash drive. "We aren't going to make good on the deal."

"Sounds like suicide," growled Jethro, his piercing gaze boring into Callan.

"_Sounds_," repeated Callan, emphasizing the word. "It isn't. Pretskaya knows I've got the drive, thanks to Jenny," Callan nodded at Jenny and she smiled a little, nodding her head. She had left his calling card, after all.

Something occurred to Jethro.

"You set off the alarm on purpose," he stated, growling at her a little.

"So it didn't look pro," she said, with a shrug, "I dropped a little something of Callan's as well, to keep with his less-than-suave cover."

She looked away, but he was glaring at her, berating her for the danger she'd put herself in. Jenny didn't care if it was reckless, and not what they'd planned out. It was worth it. Jethro wasn't going to like what came next even more.

"Pretskaya is under the impression the people I work for, who want what he's got, are a covert branch of the CIA—and he knows I'm a liability. This is Decker's way of getting me out clean and getting you two in easy: you set up the meet with Pretskaya to deliver. I've been killed as a necessary casualty, that's the story. You're going to give him the run down on the CIA order of immunity I've told him he's getting and Jethro—"

Callan broke off, looking at the man he knew fairly well, and Jethro nodded, aware of what was coming.

"Kill shot," he said.

"Bingo," Callan said, holding his hand like a gun and silently pulling the proverbial trigger.

Jenny's jaw tightened, but she didn't say anything. Jethro knew she didn't like the blatant assassinations, but she would have to deal with it. That was the game they were in now.

"I'll provide you with what you need to know, the contact information, and any wild cards that might show up," he broke off with a sort of grin, and saluted, "but I'm on the red-eye to the Los Angeles coast. Re-assigned to the Special Ops field office," he said.

"Hollywood Agents," sneered Jethro, and Callan just shook his head, snorting at Jethro's derision.

"You can't linger here," Jenny murmured, her head against the brick wall behind her as she watched Callan.

"No," he agreed, standing swiftly. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone and a small envelop.

"Contact Pretskaya with that phone," he said abruptly, "And the details are in the envelope. I'll be in contact tomorrow to brief you a little more, from a secure line."

Jethro stood and shook Callan's hand, a blank look on his face. Jenny watched the two men saying goodbye, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. It was not that she was afraid to meet someone like Pretskaya, or eve afraid of what they were doing now…but something made her gut twist over this op. It made her feel sick, bad.

She didn't like the sound of it.

Callan started to leave, and looked back at Jenny.

"It has to be her," he said, nodding cordially to Jenny, "He has to meet her. I told him about a woman, an arms dealer," he was speaking of Jenny's cover now, and she was watching him like a hawk.

Callan paused and nodded to Jenny, a nod she returned with a smirk.

"You watch your back with Pretskaya, Shepard. He's brutal, and he doesn't trust anyone."

"Neither do I," she responded, swallowing the feeling in her stomach, trying to push it away.

Jethro looked calculatingly at Callan, disliking the idea of sending Jenny in alone himself. He watched as Callan opened the door, and then shut it, turning to them with a sly look.

"Bad luck on the lodgings," he said, glancing around, before he paused. "Wait. You have spare bullets?"

Jethro rolled his eyes as if it were the dumbest question he'd heard. Jenny stood gracefully, taking her gun with her, disappearing into the bathroom.

"How many?" she asked.

"Three or four," Callan answered, "I want a full magazine to last me until I get the hell out of here. Damn, this place is dirty," he murmured, looking at Jethro.

Jenny opened a beaten up bathroom drawer and reached to the back for their bullet supply, feeling in the dank dark for a few to gift Callan with. She had just pulled her arm back when she saw it, right on the back of her hand.

"Rats?" Callan was asking in the outer room, looking around.

"No," Jethro grunted, starting to continue when a loud, panicked scream reached his ears from the bathroom.

Callan jumped and grabbed his weapon from the place at is back, charging towards the bathroom. Jethro just rolled his eyes, not even bothering to take his weapon as he breezed past Callan, followed Jenny's shaky pointing, and picked up a bottle of soap to kill the particularly big spider that had scared the crap out of her.

Callan stared in shock for a moment, and then started laughing.

Jenny glared.

"That's the third one today, Jen, you think you'd be okay with them—"

"You get the floor tonight," she growled, chucking Callan's bullets at him and storming out.

"Feisty," remarked Callan, failing to notice Jenny's suggestive comment. He dropped the bullets into his pocket and shot another amused glance at the dead spider. He chuckled.

"You better leave," warned Jethro, fearing for Callan's life if Jenny heard the chuckling continue.

"Good idea," murmured Callan, touching his head in salute He slipped past Jethro, holstering his weapon safely again and when he reached for the door this time, it was for real.

"Good night," Jenny waved patronizingly from her place on the bed. Jethro gave her a look. Callan smirked.

"Good luck," he offered, before disappearing.

Jethro followed up behind him and locked the door. He leaned against it and turned to Jenny. She gave him a sour look, aware of what he was about to say.

"I don't want to hear it."

"It was dangerous, Jen," he growled, referring to her alarm setting off.

"Our job is dangerous, how many times have you told me that? Sometimes we take risks."

"You take a lot of risks."

"Risks are what get you recognized, Jethro!"

"Who the hell do you want to recognize you, Jenny?" he retorted, and she reigned in her ambition, blinking. Her shoulders sagged.

"I don't want to fight," she said in a low voice, pushing her gun away from her. He crossed the room to her, crawling on the mattress to sit next to her.

"Fine, we won't fight," he murmured, putting his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head on him and closed her eyes, sighing.

"Jen?"

"What?"

"Do I really have to sleep on the floor?"

She hesitated briefly.

"…No."

* * *

Jethro winced as Jenny kicked him for the third time in fifteen minutes. He shifted and pushed her shoulder, putting up his knee to try and stop her from rolling closer. She sighed in frustrating and turned onto her back, kicking at the blankets in annoyance.

"Stop," he growled.

"Shut-up," she growled back in the dark, tired and frustrated with this godforsaken excuse for a bed.

"I can't feel my knee from your kicking," he snarled.

"Well you're elbow is digging into my spine!"

"You're smaller, scoot over."

"You're the man, get the hell over it."

"Real mature, Jenny."

She smacked him in the shoulder and he grunted, glaring at her.

"Stop giving me that look," she ordered knowingly. He looked at her in outrage.

She sighed and twisted a little, lying on her back, half tangled in sheets, half tangled in him, and half off the mattress, just desperately trying to sleep.

"This is fucking ridiculous."

"You get a sailor mouth when you're pissed, Jen, ever noticed?"

"Jethro, I am going to kill you."

He propped himself up on one arm and looked at her. She shifted her head, glaring at him darkly.

"What'd I do?" he asked innocently.

She just blew hair out of her face and shook her head, sighing.

"Nothing," she said, her anger deflating a little. "Nothing, Jethro, I'm sorry. I can't get comfortable."

He moved closer to her and put his arm around her, laying back down closer this time, with his face buried in her neck.

"Since you can't sleep," he murmured, kissing her neck, "We could—"

"I'm so tired, Jethro," she interrupted, rubbing her face. Her voice was soft, apologetic. He didn't even have the energy to be offended by the rejection because he felt bad for her. Jenny was having a rough time. "I have a headache."

He kissed her forehead gently, pulling her a little closer, and caressing her hair.

"You can sleep on top of me," he suggested softly.

"Subtle, Jethro," she said sarcastically, though she sounded tiredly amused.

"Not what I mean," he insisted, tucking her hair behind her ears. "You need sleep, Jen."

"Mm-hmm," she murmured, twisting her hand into his shirt and snuggling closer. She shifted her head and put it on his arm, worming a leg into his. "Don't move," she said thickly, sounding half-asleep. "This is nice."

He smiled and pressed a kiss into her hair, glad he could help. If she could just get a good, long sleep, that would be perfect. He'd try and slip out early tomorrow, let her have the mattress to herself for some rest, and bring back some coffee to make her smile.

"Jethro?" she murmured sleepily, shifting her head uncomfortable again.

"Jen?" he drawled in response, running his fingers lazily up and down her back.

"Take me to dinner tomorrow," she murmured, pulling at his shirt a little.

He smiled at the girlish request. They hadn't had time for things like that much lately. He ran his hand through her hair and touched the diamond earrings he'd given her, earrings she had yet to take out. He kissed her ear softly and settled down next to her, watching her slightly troubled, sleeping face.

He'd give her whatever she asked.

* * *

_What I've learned from writing Chapter One: 1)I love Prague 2)Gibbs + Motorcycle = weak knees_

_-Alexandra_


	3. Her Bad Feeling

_A/N: Thanks to A'serene!_

**

* * *

**

He took her to lunch instead.

It was a more relaxed atmosphere than a nicer, dinner restaurant would have been, and he personally felt Jenny needed to be relaxed rather than wined-and-dined, considering how on edge she was.

He had managed to slip out quietly without waking her this morning near dawn and slink away to find a coffee shop. She had been dead to the world, but when he returned, she was sitting in the middle of the floor, examining the papers Callan had given them, an alert, determined look on her face.

She had appreciated the coffee, and he'd spent the morning on the floor with her—though maybe not in the way he'd have wished—as she worked through her rigid thoughts and checked in with Decker, spoke with Callan, and then set up the meet with this Konstantin Pretskaya character.

He could tell something was bothering here.

"This food is weird," Jethro commented gruffly, giving his plate suspicious look. He didn't speak Czech well, but he'd been able to figure enough out due to its closeness to Russian and ordered what had sounded like meat.

He wasn't so sure if it was now.

Jenny smiled tightly.

"You think all food is weird if it's not American," she pointed out.

He scowled.

"Not true. I liked that steak in Paris."

"Yeah, well, everything was better in Paris."

"Something bothering you, Jen?" he asked finally, glaring at her forcefully across the table.

She looked at him wordlessly, as if genuinely at a loss for what he was talking about. She averted her eyes and picked up her glass of water, drinking from it determinedly. She had eaten her food, most likely as an excuse to remain quiet. He was about to question her again, or at least adjust his glare to a fiercer notch, when she looked up sharply, as if sensing it.

"Why do we have to kill him?" she asked coldly, emotionlessly.

He blinked, for a moment not understanding what she meant. Then, he grasped it.

"Jen," he began, but she cut him off with a look that silenced anything he would say to blow her off.

"Pretskaya is helping the United States in what he's about to do, and he dies for it? Where is the justification in that?"

"Keep your voice down," he ordered, and Jenny saw, for the first time, the Gibbs from her probie days come out before her eyes, demanding, straightforward, and harsh. It subdued her a little, but only a little. She waited to hear what he would say. "The man is a terrorist and now a traitor to his country. NCIS can't afford to have a threat like that running around, and we sure as hell can't trust a traitor."

"Yes, and who made him a traitor, Jethro? NCIS did! Callan, Decker, Morrow—they all turned him. You're operating on a twisted bit of logic there, don't you think?" she asked, and as much as he knew it was just the compassion coming out in her, it angered him.

"A traitor is a traitor, Jen. If he had any pride at all he'd never stab his country or his government in the back no matter what he was offered. He doesn't deserve a scrap of your respect or mine—he has been responsible in some way for the death of thousands, selling weapons of mass destruction into the hands of Hamas, Hezbollah…" Jethro trailed off, looking at her coldly.

"And because of that you don't bat an eyelid knowing he'll die at your hands?" she asked icily, her green eyes searching him for an answer that comforted her.

He considered her carefully.

"If you're asking do I condone taking a life to preserve millions of others, the answer is _yes_," he told her quietly, with finality. He believed that firmly and whole-heartedly; maybe it came from years as a sniper, or from fighting the wars that people like Pretskaya caused because no one had the gall to take them down.

"That wasn't what I was asking," she said quietly. She looked at her water glass and then up at him, her demeanor deflated and changed suddenly. "I was asking how you do it," she corrected, "and how do you sleep afterwards?"

He put down his fork, at a loss for what to say to her. He just did. He did his job.

"An eye for an eye," he said slowly, "one head to save millions."

She studied him closely.

"You would agree that there's justice in murder when the circumstances align, then?"

He furrowed his brow a little, rubbing his hand lightly under his chin. It seemed like she was searching for some kind of justification for herself now. As if she didn't have a problem with it, but she wanted to know what he thought, see if it matched her thoughts.

She knew how to get him to talk without actually starting a conversation, dammit.

"It's like war, Jen," he muttered, "It isn't pleasant. It may not ever be justified in the eyes of everyone, but sometimes it _is_ necessary."

"A necessary evil," she murmured, and leaned back, looking away. She glanced back at him, her eyes guarded, and slightly glassy. "What if it's personal, Jethro?" she asked in a low voice.

He was taken aback, almost angry. His mind flashed to a Mexican cliff a few years ago, to himself, waiting for the bastard who'd ripped everything he cared for away from him so he could put a bullet in his skull.

"It's your cross to bear," he growled, "A decision that you make and a consequence that you will ultimately have to deal with."

Her expression remained the same. She studied him, her head tilted, lips parted just slightly, her food and drink forgotten.

"What are you looking for, Jen?" he asked quietly, probingly, trying to read her thoughts while he settled his own. She wasn't talking about him, she was talking about her, justifying her actions—or the actions she would take in the future—somehow he knew that. It didn't mean he knew what to say.

She didn't answer. She looked away, taking a drink of her water. He pushed his food away and stood up, yanking his wallet from his pocket as he approached whomever he was supposed to pay for lunch. Jenny was watching him when he returned, plucked her coat off of her chair, and held it out for her.

She stood up and slipped into it, giving him a curious look. He nodded his head towards the door.

"Don't like the atmosphere in here," he grunted, giving her a pointed look and nudging her towards the exit. He held the door open coolly and let it close behind them, glad to be out of there into fresher air.

He let his hand fall to her lower back as they went through the streets to a city square, where he wound his hand around her arm above the elbow, earning a sharp look from her, and drew her over to a bench, forcing her down.

"Can you handle this Operation, Jen?" he asked bluntly, glaring at her, "If you can't, I need to know now."

Her wide, clever green eyes met his determinedly and ferociously, and a little coldly.

"I don't want to hear you ask me that again."

"Don't get in over your head. There's merit in stepping back, Jenny," he said curtly.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You doubt me? After everything, you doubt me?" she asked. She sounded like she was genuinely questioning him. Her query didn't leave room for him to opt out of an answer.

"Nah," he answered softly, "Sounds like you doubt yourself," he said, giving her another probing look. She shook her head slowly, dispelling that notion. He knew that wasn't it. There was too much confidence in her to allow room for insecurity or doubt.

He watched her lean back and look away from him, relaxing her shoulders a little. Turned towards her on the bench, he studied her. They'd been a lot closer since Positano. They read each other better, they didn't scream at each other so much, and it was because of the different, closer intimacy that he knew there was a part of her shrouded in darkness that he was never going to quite touch.

And Russia brought it out.

"You don't like arms dealers," he noted, and she looked up at him neutrally, searchingly. "You read Pretskaya's file, Jen?"

"I don't particularly like getting to know the targets," she said sarcastically, letting a ghost of a smile grace the corners of her mouth.

He smiled a little balefully.

"Read it," he suggested, touching her shoulder and kneading it gently, "There's nothing like anger to make a sanctioned shot easier," he said quietly, his fingers rubbing her shoulder expertly, loosening the muscles through her leather coat and the shirt beneath it.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, obviously soothed by the gentle touch. He reached over and touched her knee, sliding his hand higher, and one of her eyes was open in a split second, watching him like a hawk.

He smirked and let his hand fall off of her thigh slower, standing up abruptly. She looked at him with mild interest.

"Come on," he coaxed sternly.

"Come where?" she asked, not budging.

"Find a bar," he answered gruffly, "You're not yourself."

Jenny laughed, and he was relieved to hear it.

"You think alcohol will cure me?"

"Don't know about cure, but it will make you easy," he responded, reaching down and yanking her up with a wicked smirk. She snorted and gave his hand a disdainful look.

"It's not even two o'clock," she reprimanded, mockingly stern.

He shrugged and moved his hand to her lower back again, dragging her insistently towards his side and his warmth.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," he justified.

* * *

Jethro stood at the base of the Petrin Lookout Tower, Prague's less elegant and much less famous version of Paris' Eiffel Tower. He watched the areas surrounding him like a hawk, his eyes and his ears tuned in to everything, hyper charged and over sensitive. He didn't know this place well, and he and Jenny hadn't had much time to scope it out before this meet.

She had handled setting up the meet. Pretskaya had to think she was alone, using Callan as her subordinate. She sat perched on a bench maybe twenty meters away, right in his line of vision, reading some piece of literature in picture of practiced unconcern. She blended in well with the late hour, dressed in dark, neutral colors that made her hard to see.

He felt blind. He fervently wished they had access to ear wigs, or he could be closer, listening to the conversation that would come. They had been at the Lookout Tower for almost two hours prior to the meet, hardly saying a word to each other. Now it was mere moments away from the set time, and Jethro was still unnerved by what Jenny had said to him before she took her position.

_I have a bad feeling about this, Jethro._

_I'll wait until you're clear to take the shot._

_It isn't that. That isn't what I mean. It's…it feels wrong. _

He thought she'd been upset about the killing, she said it was a gut feeling. Something was off. He didn't know what to tell her; she knew they couldn't scrap the Op now and they both knew there was no reason, no whisper of things gone wrong, to tell them this wouldn't go off without a hitch.

Still, he knew enough about gut feelings to know not to discount hers. Jenny has sharp instincts and he trusted them. He trusted her, even if she'd shown a tendency lately to edit the truth.

He turned his watchful eye to the building close to his left. It was under renovations, cold, metal, and imposing—and off limits at this late hour. It didn't matter; they were experts at blending in, bit just meant that a swift carryout was key to success.

Impatient, Jethro sunk back into the shadows a little, checking his watch in the virtually non-existent light. Game time. He looked up in time to see Jenny's magazine, or book, perhaps, lower as she turned her head in his direction. He met her eyes, whether she could tell or not.

* * *

Jenny felt him looking at her, watching her sharply and carefully. She knew his senses were heightened and focused completely, and she was relaxed because of it, knowing his skills and trusting his military honed instincts to keep her safe if her own defenses failed her.

She liked to think they never would, but back up was nice all the same.

She had the precious flash drive tucked snugly into the heel of her boot, conveniently close to her knife just for security in case something went wrong. She didn't have her Sig on her; Jethro had it, but she was carrying a smaller gun, something that fit inconspicuously into the small of her back even in fairly tight clothing.

All the same, she wanted her Sig. She was comfortable with her Sig, and she was not comfortable with this mission. She knew the details, knew the plan, and was confident in her abilities of manipulation, coercion, and politics of play, but there was something about this that made her skin crawl.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

The lightest footfall reached her ears and she felt a flicker of pride in herself that she didn't even flinch, her eyes trained professionally on the magazine she was 'reading' in a language she didn't quite understand. The dark moved next to her, and a tall, imposing figure took the seat next to her on the bench.

Casually flicking a page, she spoke in French, her comfort zone, and the language she'd conducted initial contact in.

"The monument is closed," she said mildly. "Renovations."

"A pity," responded an elegantly suave voice, his French accented just slightly with guttural Russian, "that people must constantly fix what was never broken. All the better, I suppose, for no one will witness our business."

Jenny smirked and flicked a page in her magazine, examining a colorful ad for a moment before closing it slowly and laying it neatly in her lap.

"Interesting location," she stated, a bit mocking, and her mark laughed softly next to her.

"Ah yes, it is—the open air, the public venue; it seems rather amateur, does it not? I hoped you might find it so, Madame…?"

He knew her name. Callan had dropped it more than once, in line with the plan, working to get whispers of her cover into the ranks of the arms dealers.

"Ivanovich," she said shortly, without looking at him.

"Madame Ivanovich," he said, with cold humor in his tone, "Quite a lofty title, I notice. I am pleased to note your aversion to doing business in such a crass public place," he continued, standing up gracefully. "I am satisfied that you are, in fact, the professional your reputation bespeaks. I do not, as it turns out, perform such delicate exchanges as we are to make in the open. I do hope you won't have any objection to following me to a more," he paused, and she could tell he smiled in a charming way, "a more sanctified place."

Jenny knew this was not the time for hesitation, and shrugged as if careless, but the idea made her wary all the same. Moving was not part of the plan. It would put herself and Jethro at a disadvantage.

"No objection at all," she said silkily, folding her magazine as she stood.

"Excellent," he said, offering her his arm. She gave him a cold look, a disdainful, condescending look, and he rescinded the escort offer, instead allowing her to walk next to him on her own.

They left the surrounding area of the Petrin Lookout Tower and Jenny set her jaw firmly, grinding her teeth together to steady her thoughts. Jethro would be livid at this point, attempting to follow without being noticed. She knew he could do it easily without a second thought, but he would no doubt insist, when this was over, that she could have somehow prevented the move.

She didn't think so.

"Shall we attempt to engage in pleasantries?" her companion asked, gesturing down a street as they reached the old roads of Prague's _Mala Strana,_ an old, little city within the city.

"I do not find them necessary," Jenny replied, her French clipped and businesslike, "Though, if they soothe you, feel free to regale me."

He chuckled.

She was busy taking in her surroundings. She and Jethro had ridden through _Mala Strana_ on the motorcycle a few times, she'd shopped here, seen a few sights, but she didn't know it. They had focused on the inner city of Prague, the clubs and high-end markets and restaurants.

"_Kostel Panny Marie Vitezne_," he said smoothly, stopping and turning to the entrance of an old, simple-yet-elegant white building on the suburban streets. Jenny looked up at it calculatingly, her eyes on the crucifix at the top, translating in her limited Czech what he'd said.

Church of our Lady Victorious.

She'd seen it in the brochures, on websites. It was famous for its Infant Jesus statue, an artistic work traced back to 1628 and Bohemian Princesses. It was duplicated by devotees all over the world, revered by Irish girls on their wedding nights, and despite all its fame, Jenny couldn't fathom why the hell he target was leading her to a damn church.

"I am an admirer of Carmelite history," he said, as if reading her mind, "My connections to the keeper of this lovely church have ensured us complete privacy," he added, sweeping forward.

Jenny followed, thinking it crass. She wasn't the most religious woman in the world, but even she found something disrespectful about killing a man in a church, spilling his blood on the altar.

The rows of pews inside were pristine, wooden; the décor was all gold and beautifully crafted. She could see at the front of the church the altar that displayed the Infant Jesus in its glory, and the stone steps that led up to it.

"Yet another interesting location," Jenny commented, "Perhaps you feel the overwhelming need to confess your sins?"

"I am at peace with my lord, Madame Ivanovich," he responded silkily, looking up peacefully at the Infant Jesus as he reached the stairs.

Slowly, Konstantin Pretskaya turned to face her, a quirked, cold smirk on his face.

"Are you?" he asked challengingly.

Jenny met his eyes.

"I have nothing to atone for," she said lightly, and his eyes brimmed with mirth at the saucy comment.

"You have what I requested, I assume?" Pretskaya asked, his hands drifting to the pockets of his heavy wool coat.

"A question you already possess the answer to," she answered pointedly, drawing from her own coat a Swiss army knife and a passport strategically spattered with blood. She threw them to the floor at Pretskaya's feet, and Callan's lopsided grin looked up at them both from beneath the blood covered plastic of his passport. "Thievery, it seems, was not his forte. He almost alerted the authorities to my existence," she said, indicating the knife with a small smile, "Alas, but he paid for his amateur larceny. And yourself and yours truly shall reap the benefits."

Pretskaya bent slowly, without looking away from her, and picked up the two items. Jenny knew he was familiar with the knife; it had been Callan's trademark, solely in place to provide proof of his death when the time came, for it was known by his colleagues he'd never part with it.

"Tsk, tsk," Pretskaya clicked his tongue, "And I so would have liked to kill the snake myself," he hissed in a low voice, and Jenny' almost lost grip of her composure. Either Callan hadn't known Pretskaya wanted his head, or he hadn't seen fit to tell; either way it was troublesome information.

It posed questions as to why Pretskaya wanted Callan dead, if Callan had promised him power and riches.

Jenny tensed slightly, whispering a small prayer that Jethro had found his way to a good vantage point in the church.

"He was not so much a snake when he died," Jenny said distastefully, "as a squealing pig."

Pretskaya laughed derisively.

"I would expect no more than just that," he said silkily. "Enough with the small talk," he said, his tone growing serious, "You have something of mine."

"Ah," Jenny said, tapping the heel of the boot that contained the flash drive, "but it is not yours, and will not be yours until I have what was promised to me," she chided, letting a smile grace her features.

"You will forgive me if I am less than trusting of a woman I have only just had the pleasure of meeting," Pretskaya said delicately, "Your name has barely been a whisper in the past few months, and I have contacts reaching far and wide. I find your ability to stay so hidden," he paused, "impressive, to say the least."

"I do try," she said.

"And suspicious at the most," he added curtly. She just inclined her head, choosing not to respond. She felt like she was walking on ice.

"I ensure that I have what you want," she said coldly.

"And I what you want," he said gallantly, "but you and I, Madame Ivanovich, both possess items that the _Americans_ want, and the Americans have, of late, reared their meddling heads."

"Oh?" she asked mildly, fumbling. She flashed back to Paris, held by the Russian in that restaurant, Olivia's death, and the night six people died on Monceau. Pretskaya nodded.

"Ah, forgive me, Madame Ivanovich, I am afraid my comfort with the lovely French language has been exhausted. A switch to my native language, if you don't mind?"

Jenny nodded curtly, summoning her internal English-to-Russian dictionary. Jethro was the one who inexplicably spoke Russian like a native, not her.

"The Americans," she sneered, a little relieved that she sounded convincingly Russian to her ears. "What need we fear from them? They think they are a force of good in a world they do not understand. They are naïve."

"They are more formidable than you think," Pretskaya reprimanded silkily, looking at her intently. "They garnered considerable success in Paris, I'm sure you heard, when they eviscerated my gun runners."

Her face, she hoped, betrayed not a flicker of emotion, but suddenly her instincts were screaming at her to cut the chat and make the exchange. Pretskaya was sharp; Russian wasn't her forte. She thought it better, at this point, to turn on the charm.

Lowering her eyelashes demurely, she lifted a shoulder elegantly and looked at him coquettishly.

"Then I am right in thinking you wish to make your fortune before the Americans strike again, if they dare," she said silkily, turning to the closes pew and propping her boot up on it. She reached for the top, the zipper, and brought it down slowly, her hair falling over her place.

"My fortune, yes," he said in a low voice, "A fortune that, sadly, will be made in direct result to your misfortune, Madame."

Jenny's fingers brushed her knife as she took the flash drive. She hesitated briefly.

"Your French is flawless," he said silkily, "But there is something distinctly," he paused, his tone dropping dangerously to a growl, "_American_," he spat, "about your Russian."

Her blood ran cold.

She went for the blade instead of the flash drive, slipping it into her sleeve flicked open as she straightened up sharply, her expression stoic. His hand was out of his pocket now, and in a quick flick of her eyes she saw the cold, impersonal metal of the gun he had trained on her, a tight look on his face.

"It is unfortunate for you, Madame, that the whispers of arms dealers in Paris carry all the way to Chechnya," he tilted his head mockingly towards her, "And it is an utter shame that red hair is so uncommon to my mother country.

Jenny didn't spare a thought for something clever to say. If Jethro hadn't taken Pretskaya down yet, then he wasn't around or he couldn't see what was going on, and she was on her own. She reach forward surely, and quickly, sliding the knife out of her wrist and making sure it went sharply into the veins of his wrist as she grabbed his arm and twisted it, yanking him towards her to prevent a kill shot.

He hissed in suppressed pain.

"It seems you _do_ under estimate the Americans, Konstantin," she snarled in his ear, using her boot to wipe his feet from under him. He fell, but not before he grabbed on to her other arm and yanked her, causing her to lose her grip on his arm a little and his gun to slip in her grasp.

"You and yours were fools to think I would ever betray my heritage," he hissed, and the loud, deafening echo of a gunshot hit her eardrums with a force that caused her to flinch.

It was a momentary, blissful distraction from the pain that suddenly erupted in her thigh and shot up her spine as his bullet tore through her.

* * *

He was wary, pissed, and on edge.

She shouldn't have agreed to move.

He couldn't find a way into the church without opening a door and alerting Pretskaya to his presence, and he wouldn't dare jeopardize Jenny by doing so. He was forced to prowl the outside of the church until he found a window he could see through from a very cramped place. It was dirty, and he had a bad view.

What was worse was he didn't know what was going on.

He could see Jenny and Pretskaya standing close, talking. He couldn't hear. Again, he cursed not having ears on this Operation. Jenny lowered her head, leaning down, and he arched to see, fingering his gun. His gut lurched, acting up now, tightening all his muscles. He clenched his jaw.

And suddenly, Jenny and Pretskaya disappeared from his line of sight.

Jethro reacted violently as soon as he heard the gunshot. He barely had time to decipher what might have happened before Pretskaya's head reappeared and with deadly precision, Jethro put a bullet through it, the satisfaction that came with the kill spreading through him.

He knocked broken glass out of his way, ignoring the cuts that appeared on his hands, and went in through the window, adrenaline pushing him to move faster than he normally would be capable of in the cold. Pretskaya was not supposed to end up dead. He knew that, but his instinctual reaction to a gunshot close to his partner had been inevitable, and he did not regret it.

He kept quiet as he moved through the pews, his blood rushing loudly in his hears. He heard a clatter and a thud, and then Jenny. He could tell by the sound of her she was hurt. He reached the edge of a row of pews he was maneuvering through and saw her down the aisle, moving gingerly, sprawled against the wood.

His heart almost stopped in his chest when he saw all the blood.

"Jen," he said hoarsely, his footsteps hard and urgent as he viciously pushed the body next to her out of the way with his foot, giving enough room for him to crouch next to her.

Her eyes were closed tightly; her skin was paler than snow. He could tell from the way she bit her lip hard and kept her breathing shallow it was taking all her will power to keep quiet. He reached out and touched her face and she jerked away, shaking her head.

"God," she said, her hands pressing at her legs, at the wound.

He reached for her hands, swallowing hard to ignore the blood staining her fair skin. The moment his fingers touched her she cried out, her head slamming back against the pew. He drew his hands back, looking with fear at the severity of the wound.

He reached up and touched her face again, firmly, pulling her head to his shoulder, without a word. He held her head there a minute, acutely aware he didn't have time to waste and he had a decision to make or she was going to die in this church.

"Scream if you need to," he ordered, reaching purposefully down to remove her hands from her wound.

He ripped material from his shirt to make a tourniquet. She dug her nails into his neck and bit down on his shoulder as he moved her leg against her will and tied the material tight above her wound, trying to keep his composure.

"It's all right, Jenny," he murmured absently, trying to brace himself against her shaking and her muffled yelling in his shoulder. He reached down to her boot where the flash drive was and took it out, thrusting it over to Pretskaya's body to plant it.

He knew it would get back to its owners without a doubt if it were found planted on him.

"It hurts," she said, her spine stiffening as he applied pressure to try and stop the bleeding again. "Don't!" she cried, reaching down to try and push his hand away. "Jethro, stop! It hurts!" she yelled.

He tried to ignore, hating that he had to do it.

"You want to bleed out, Jenny?" he growled, leaning forward. She pulled away, writing under his hand with the pain. She groaned and leaned forward, drawing her leg towards her, sweat breaking out over her skin.

"He has it," she choked, "The disc, get it!" she ordered, squeezing her eyes shut again and pushing his hands away from her.

He complied, but he was reaching for his phone. He flipped Pretskaya over, searching his pocket while his other hand fumbled with his phone. He swallowed hard again, the taste in his mouth bad, ignoring his training to prepare to dial a forbidden number.

He yanked the disc they were after from Pretskaya's coat pocket and slipped it into his, whirling back to Jenny with his part of his phone between his teeth.

"Come here," he said, pulling her towards him.

He covered her mouth and took Pretskaya's heavy coat, lifting her leg at the knee and wrapping it around her leg. She fought him, but he held her by her shoulder firmly. He hesitated briefly, aware that it would hurt like hell, before he pressed his palm against the gunshot wound through the coat.

Jenny screamed, a hoarse, strangled noise that was clearly restrained as much as she could. He kissed the top of her head and held her against him, refusing to let her move. Struggling would only make her blood flow faster, and she couldn't afford to lose more. She had maybe ten minutes to be treated before it was too late.

"Jethro, _please_," she pleaded, cried, her voice breaking with a sob. "It hurts, it hurts."

"For your own good, Jen," he soothed, gritting his teeth against her pain.

"I'm not walking out of this," she moaned. She turned her head towards his shoulder and let out a sharp breath, still fighting to keep quiet.

"You think I'm gonna let you die in this church?" he snarled, tempted to head slap her. He punched in Prague's emergency medical number, breaking the number on cardinal rule of undercover work: No hospitals.

He barked orders into the phone, cold and imposing, doing his best to soothe Jenny and praying to whichever God was listening that this wasn't going to end in another death.

* * *

Everything was so frozen, so cold. It was like he was watching from a distance, removing himself emotionally so he'd be able to make the indifferent decisions, hurt her to help her, instead of being stopped by her crying and yelling for him to stop.

Hospitals meant inquiries and IDs and a hell of a lot of explaining. Decker would be involved within hours, possible Morrow, and there would be a maelstrom of cursing and reprimanding and God knows what else to deal with.

But he'd be damned if Jenny was going to die in some ancient church in Prague in the name of a mission she'd said was bad anyway.

Jethro sat in the shadowy, almost empty waiting room of the hospital, watching a few lights flicker blankly, waiting, and hearing the seconds tick by like a time bomb. His hands and shirt were still covered in Jenny's blood; the disc they'd acquired was heavy and distastefully to him in the inner pocket of his coat, and his knuckles were white as he gripped her leather coat tightly in his hands, his eyes trained on the drying blood.

Her blood.

He had been almost relieved when she lost consciousness. At least then she had stopped begging him to quit hurting her. She hadn't been lucid anyway after a few minutes while he waited for the ambulance, and fixed the scene to make it look less suspicious.

He knew it was bad. It was making him sick how bad it was. A round to the thigh was dangerous and life-threatening; from the amount of blood there had been he knew her femoral artery had been nicked, if not destroyed. His hope was it was reparable, considering she was still alive. If the artery had been severed, she'd never have made it longer than two minutes.

He should have listened to her when she said it was a bad Op. There had to have been something he could have done.

Instead he was here, in this hateful waiting room, sitting while they worked on Jenny, who was just a nameless woman to them. He'd mumbled a random name when they asked for it and then wondered what made him say it.

Nurses moved around silently, speaking Czech. He remained silent in his seat, his head bowed, still just staring at the blood on Jenny's coat. At the blood on his hands. He winced at the memories of holding her down while he tried to stem the flow of blood, running his hands over her thighs in a way that was anything but sensual, instead rough and urgent, life-saving.

Her crying and her pleading echoed in his ears.

He hoped they were helping her, whatever they were doing. He hoped she wasn't hurting like that anymore.

The harsh, shrill ringing of his cell phone pierced the charged silence he created, and yet he didn't flinch, too stoically conditioned to show no emotion in situations like these. The number on the screen was blocked, and still he knew.

He pulled Jenny's coat towards him and flicked open the phone, swallowing his unprofessional emotions down and bracing himself as he answered with his customary, neutral grunt.

"Gibbs."

"You've got a hell of a story to tell, Gibbs," growled Decker in a low voice.

He would know something had gone wrong now. Jethro had made sure of it. Callan's passport and knife had been left at the scene purposely by him; Czech authorities would put out a warrant for the person Callan cover persona's arrest, while Callan was safe in Los Angeles.

"Yeah," Jethro said, his voice low and blunt.

"Where are you?" Decker demanded harshly.

"Hospital," Jethro answered gruffly, steeling himself for the conversation to come.

Decker swore violently, pulling the phone away from his mouth. Jethro was ready to talk when Decker returned to the phone and snarled:

"Start talkin', goddamnit!"

* * *

_What I decided while writing chapter 2: I do not want to be shot in the thigh._

_-Alexandra_


	4. Serbia, Soviet Trains, and Suffering

_A/N: Thanks to Aly!_

_Ah, a request: Please don't knock me on the medical stuff. I am not a doctor, and the extent of my medical knowledge evolves from Dr. House and my Nurse mother, so its limited. I try to be realistic, but if some bits seem a little iffy, remember this is fiction and apply that nifty little thing we call suspension of reality. Have I mentioned this installment is a bitch to write? If you don't like angst, its not for you. I think I warned already on that, though..._

_Note: The bit about Soviet trains is true. My AP History teacher adopted his daughter from Kazakhstan, and his description of the older trains was...chilling, to say the least. _

**

* * *

**

He stared at the wall. It felt like he'd been sitting in this waiting room for hours. Mechanically making phone calls. Talking to Decker, talking briefly to Callan, and _waiting_. It irked him that this hospital was so empty. It worried him. He was so used to the excruciating silence, broken only by the clipped, quick footsteps of nurses that he didn't realize that one of the nurses had returned, and was attempting to get his attention hesitantly.

He stood up blankly. She looked too young to know anything. She smiled nervously and motioned with her hand, tilting her head a little. Jethro stood stiffly as the Doctor she attended rounded the corner, in wrinkled scrubs. He swallowed hard when he saw the blood on them and looked away for a brief moment before looking back.

"Sir, your wife—" the doctor held up his hand, interrupting the nurse's soft voice before she could say much. She had spoken in Czech, and Jethro gruffly asked the doctor to speak Russian or English. The man hesitated.

"_Rustina_," he offered shrewdly, and Jethro nodded curtly. Russian, he understood and spoke fluidly. Czech he could only decipher because of its similarity. He thought the nurse might have called Jenny his wife. He didn't bother to correct her.

The nurse bowed her head demurely and retreated to her station, intimidated by the doctor and the American man. Jenny's doctor spoke surely and in clipped tones, detailing injuries, unlike American doctors in that he seemed to feel almost no emotion towards his patient.

"The bullet sliced her femoral vein," he said coolly, his Russian thick and precise, "a fatal wound if the shot had been slightly to the left or had managed to sever the vein completely. She lost a substantial amount of blood and sustained burns…"

Jethro was listening, taking it in, but not really hearing. He watched the doctor's mouth move, tuned in to every tiny sound around him, considered Jenny's health and what he was being told and trying to figure out what the best move was. He couldn't stay here with Jenny long at all. They couldn't risk it.

The doctor fell silent abruptly and Jethro nodded in acceptance, meeting the other man's emotionless eyes with a glare.

"Where is she?" he asked.

Not 'can I see her?' because he wasn't asking; he wasn't going to be told 'no'. It didn't matter that the doctor was talking about her recovering, or whatever he was on about, it mattered that he saw her alive. Immediately. The doctor looked reluctant.

"Where is she?" demanded Jethro in a growl, stepping closer. The man gave him a narrow look and gestured down the ominous, spic and span hall behind him.

"Room 4422," he said shortly, looking displeased that Jethro would presume to think he had control. "She is resting," he said sternly.

Jethro barely heard the last word. He'd already shouldered past the doctor and started down the indicated hall. It was a corridor lined with closed doors. It was cold and felt remote and unwelcoming. This hospital made his skin crawl.

Her door was closed when he reached it, and carefully read the number on thedoor plate as his hand rested on the handle, his knuckles turning white. He reached up and ran a hand over his face as if it would help ease some of the turmoil in him and opened the door, slipping in the dim room and shutting it behind him.

He leaned against the door, looking dully at the hospital bed, before he went forward, dragging a chair up to it on his way. Jenny was asleep, pale, and breathing shallowly. Her leg was elevated on a pillow and bare to the chill air. He could see the gauze and bandage on the wound exposed from underneath the hospital gown that was thin and riding up on her. He glanced at the IV to see what they had her on, and felt a considerable amount of relief when he saw the word _morphine. _

Jethro reached down and pulled the hospital blankets around her a little, trying to keep her warm. He sat down in the chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hand at his mouth, looking at her. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look so hurt. Not even in Paris, because then, she'd still been fighting him.

"Ah, hell, Jen," he muttered, reaching for her limp hand.

He flipped it over and ran his fingers softly over her palm, tracing the lines, trying to work out what had happened. Her skin was red, burnt, angry-looking. Powder burns, as if she'd been holding Pretskaya's gun when it went off.

He turned her hand back over to touch the unmarred skin. Her hands were so soft, so petite. He looked at her, watching her chest rise and fall steadily if weakly and her eyes move barely discernibly under her eyelashes, making her lashes twitch slightly. He wondered if she could dream, or if she was getting a peaceful sleep.

Jethro leaned onto the bed and put his hand on her uninjured leg through the blanket. He watched her sleep and massaged her leg soothingly, consumed by echoes of Jenny pleading with him to stop hurting her.

His phone went off and he almost didn't recognize it. It was a loud, shrill wake-up call that seemed to shatter the atmosphere, and his movements were slow as he took it from his pocket and answered it, his eyes glued to Jenny.

"Yeah," he said gruffly, not bothering to risk using his name. Three people had this number.

"Shepard?" asked Decker.

"She's alive," he answered grimly, his hand slowing in its movements on her leg.

"She's lucky," Decker said curtly. "We couldn't afford to lose her. We're in uncharted waters here, Jethro. Dangerous waters. Police have already been to the church, their asking questions. If they're asking questions—"

"Yeah," Jethro interrupted heavily, "I know, Deck."

It wouldn't be long before whispers reached the apex of the ring they were working to infiltrate. A known associate of theirs turns up murdered in a church, with bank accounts that had just been stolen from them on his person? There would be an inquiry, a panic, and a lockdown in security. Not to mention if Pretskaya and Callan had worked with anyone else, and Pretskaya had spoken of his suspicions to those people, their covers could be blown.

"Is the Op blown?" Jethro asked in a low voice.

"My gut says no," Decker answered, "Too early to tell, Gibbs. Need to give the dust time to settle, assess the situation," he paused, and Jethro sensed frustration in the other agent. "You have twenty-four hours to get out of the area."

Jethro clenched his teeth, almost biting his tongue.

"Shepard's in bad shape," he growled. "It isn't prudent to drag her all over Europe."

"It isn't prudent to stay in Prague!" snapped Decker, cursing before he went on; "You bet your ass any Americans in the area will be first on the suspect list when a Russian gangster turns up dead. This Op was solid, I don't know who slipped up where or how we screwed the pooch, but it happens—"

"We'll lie low," Jethro said.

"You're in a hospital Gibbs. You're on record," growled Decker, "Even if you used a fake name, a gunshot wound will draw attention! Dammit, you're a veteran, you know this!"

Jethro clenched his fist in frustration, standing up and shoving his chair away as he paced away from the bed, his back to Jenny. He knew it very well, but he didn't know what would happen to Jenny if he took her somewhere with no medical care. They didn't even have Ducky.

"What's the endgame, then?" Jethro conceded, backing off a little.

"Twenty-four hours. You're out by then, or I've been told to wash my hands of it and I can't help. Serbia is your best bet—Callan knows a place. It is warm there, less risk for Shepard. There's a burn account set up…" Decker repeated a quick succession of numbers labeling a bank account to Jethro and he memorized them. "Two thousand in the account. Access what you need, and don't touch it again. We'll shut it down in a week before it's even had enough activity to be noticed by the smallest of watchful eyes."

"Serbia," grunted Jethro, putting his hand against the wall and knocking his head against it with a frustrated thump. "Goddammit," he cursed.

"Yeah," Decker said drily, "It's a mess. I'll clean it up. You take care of her and you make sure you keep this Op on the tracks."

"She went by the book, Decker," Jethro said. He didn't know why he felt like he had to defend her suddenly, except he didn't want this going down in the records—if there were any records being kept on these ops—that Jenny had made a mistake. He had been there. She hadn't.

"If any of this was by the book, Jethro, we'd be working for a very dark agency," Decker said quietly, in a way that absolved Jenny if he had ever been blaming her. Jethro nodded curtly, even though Decker couldn't see him.

"Twenty-four hours, Jethro," he said again, signaling the end of the conversation. "And don't think about getting on a plane. You're on no fly until this ends."

Jethro set his jaw and pulled the phone away, shutting it forcefully and clenching it in his fist. He slammed his knuckles against the wall and swallowed a yell of frustration. He ran his hand over his face and his shoulders slumped as he turned around. He paused and lowered his hand from his face when he noticed Jenny had woken up.

She pushed herself up on her arm and blinked at him sleepily, and he returned to the bedside, shaking his head minutely.

"Take it easy, Jen," he said, reaching for the chair again.

She smiled weakly at him and ignored him. Jethro reached out and put a hand on her shoulder firmly.

"I'm serious Jenny," he ordered quietly. He sat down again and looked at her intently. Jenny shifted towards him a little and shivered, licking her lips.

"You in pain?" he asked gruffly.

She pointed at the IV and smirked.

"I can't feel anything," she answered hoarsely.

"Good," he said. He reached for her hand again and pulled it towards him. "The bullet," he began slowly, "ripped part of your femoral vein, pinched some nerves, bruised muscle. You lost a lot of blood," he swallowed hard, "You're gonna have to heal, Jen."

She turned her head and looked at her leg, reaching down to run her hand over it. She pushed back the blankets and drew up her flimsy hospital gown, showing him the tight wrapped gauze and the sturdy bandage around it.

She looked at the palm of her hand and leaned back on the bed, turning towards him again.

"What happened?" Jethro asked.

"He wasn't a traitor," she answered simply. "He never intended to hand over the Intel."

Jethro sighed, leaning forward on the bed again. He scooted closer to her, to speak more quietly and prevent anyone from getting a chance to overhear. She looked at him and looked away, swallowing. She reached up shakily to push her hair out of her face and he did it for her, resting his hand against his cheek. He was irked by the clammy feel of her usually warm skin, and stroked her cheek gently.

"What else?" he probed calmly, tilting his head to catch her eye again. There was something bothering her, or she'd never have looked away from him.

"He was the Paris ring leader," she said softly.

Jethro's eyes flashed. Shock and then anger, followed by confusion crossed his features. He shook his head, not quite understanding.

"No, we would know," he murmured. "He wasn't in Paris…" There was no way they would have missed that. Making a mistake like that, trying to pull a fast one on someone they'd already dealt with? It never would have happened.

She shook her head.

"No," she agreed, "He controlled them. The men we killed, who—"

"Who killed Kasey," Jethro murmured, comprehension dawning. He looked at her hard suddenly, fury seeping into his gaze. "The men who tortured you in Paris," he hissed through his teeth.

She let out her breath shakily and nodded.

Jethro swore violently under his breath. They had known the ring they were dealing with in Paris was low-level and controlled by something bigger; they had been working towards the Russian Op since then. They hadn't been given the information on whom. No doubt it was something Leon Vance thought they didn't need to know—because if anyone had known the connections then, he had.

"I should have taken the shot earlier," he growled. He should have shot Pretskaya the moment he saw him.

"You didn't know," she said softly, shaking her head minutely again, "And it is helpful that we have that information now," she added, wincing. His eyes snapped to the morphine drip apprehensively and he stroked her cheek again.

"Helpful," he sneered. "There's a bullet in your leg."

"They took it out, actually," she corrected hoarsely, managing a smile. Jethro didn't return it. He ran his hand over her hair soothingly.

"Jen," he said, pulling her head a little closer to him. He bowed his own and touched his forehead to the crown of her hair, breathing her in.

"I've never felt like that before," she murmured, resting her head on the pillows, "Listening to him unravel my cover, seeing the gun on me. It felt like…I couldn't breathe, my stomach dropped. Like suffocating," she took a deep breath. "It was the worst feeling. Awful," her voice shook.

"Fear," he said gruffly.

"I was scared," she admitted in a small voice.

"It's all right, Jenny."

He kissed her temple, letting his lips linger against her skin. He was never gladder that he had shot Pretskaya himself than in that moment. Jenny was lying in a hospital bed in an unfamiliar place, hurt and scared, and that didn't sit well with him.

"Are you going to get me out of here, Jethro?" she asked quietly.

He drew back, his hand in her hair tenderly, looking grim.

"Jen, you're—"

"In bad shape," she interrupted, smiling a little. "I was awake. I heard."

"Of course you did," he murmured, letting her see a small, tight smile.

Hers faded seriously, her green eyes heavy.

"It's important we get out," she said quietly. "Can't waste time."

He sighed and reached up to rub his face uncertainly, reluctantly. He looked at her, flicked his eyes to the pain medicine in her IV drip and met her eyes again.

"You'll be in pain, Jen. It'll be bad," he said hoarsely.

She nodded.

"I know."

"You could lose blood, get an infection," he just stopped, blocking the thoughts.

She looked at him determinedly, leaning up a little. He let her, admiring her strength. She took a deep breath.

"I can get through pain," she said confidently, "Don't worry about me," she glared at him pointedly, as if she knew he was going to worry anyway. "You need to make the arrangements. Get our things. Make it like we were never here. Leave me here to make noise about leaving."

"I'm not leaving," he said sternly.

"Yes you are, you can't take me around while you prepare to leave," she said smartly, "I'll attract attention. We can't draw attention by stealing off together anyway. It should look like you're gone, and I go off on my own."

He looked at her, loathing this entire situation.

"Jethro," she said softly urgently, "You've got to trust me to do my job," she said seriously, her eyes latched on his. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah," he muttered harshly, drawing back. "May as well let you. I'm not doing a good job of it," he growled, more to himself than her. She murmured his name but he had pulled away and stood up.

He paced away, thinking fast, and paced back, placing his hands on the bed and leaning on it with his head hung. He looked back up and let out a breath of air, bracing himself and setting his jaw, slipping back behind a mask of professionalism and preparing to make the hard decisions.

"Tell them you're hurting and get them to up the morphine;" he ordered mechanically, "It might help in the long run. I'll make the arrangements; get you some clothes. When I get back Jen," he paused. It pained him to say this to her. "You have to be prepared to walk out of here. No matter how much it hurts."

She nodded stiffly. Jethro turned and reached for the table like thing at the end of the bed that held her chart, scanning the equations and measurements, and the sparse information he'd given for her. He handed it to her, pointing to the line on one of the papers that indicated the patient sign out.

"Don't sign that," he said pointedly, "The less paperwork involved the better."

She took it from him, her eyes blank. He looked at her for a moment, and shifted, squaring his shoulders.

"An hour," he said gruffly.

"Jethro," she said, as he turned to go. He went back to her. She reached out and took his wrist, pulling him towards her, squeezing tightly. She kissed him quickly, biting her lip when he pulled away, her eyes closed. With her other hand, she reached over and pressed a call button for the nurse, opening her eyes and adopting a look of pain.

Jethro backed away, turning with a cut nod. He brushed out the door as a nurse entered, and heard Jenny, convincingly whiny, start moaning about her leg and how much she was hurting.

He moved quickly, mechanically. He was desperate to get her out of here, somewhere safe, preferably where no one could ever touch her again save him. The cloud that hung over his shoulder as he left the hospital was heavy with the knowledge that she was going to suffer.

* * *

The train to Serbia's capital of Belgrade was eight hours long, and the train itself was less than savory one if one used a kind description. The sleeper cars had bunks and then seats with ripped upholstery, the food was sparse, and the ride was rickety. The trains were those left from the Soviet days of Russia, and they had not been renovated.

He had moved quickly in making their arrangements to get out of Prague. The murder in the church was big news, and police were everywhere, connecting the robbery with the murder and other things. He had managed train tickets, and used a pair of back up cover passports to get them through customs—passports that would not hold up to scrutiny if it came to that.

The doctor had been trouble at the hospital, throwing a fit when Jenny stood and walked out against his orders. In the commotion she had deliberately caused, he'd been able to steal strong pain medication and some other minor supplies just in case they needed them, stowing them in her shoulder bag.

Then it had been a show of them fighting with each other, he ordering her to stay and be treated, she yelling at him to get out of her life. They had left separately, and met up a ways down the road.

Jenny's morphine had started to wear off an hour or two ago, drawing her out of a drugged, quiet sleep slowly and agonizingly. He couldn't access medicine to numb her at the moment; patrolling guards on the train would confiscate them.

She was curled up tightly at his side on the bottom bunk, her injured thigh resting gingerly on his legs, her nails digging into his hand where she gripped him. She hadn't made a sound, but he could feel the stiff, tenseness of her muscles and the tightness of her as she bit it back. Her heart was beating against his leg and her jaw was clenched; when he put the back of his free hand soothingly to her forehead, he found she had a fever.

She shifted and turned on her back, running a hand over her face and releasing his hand. She reached behind her slowly and eased herself up, her lips pressing together and turning white as she hurt both her burned palms and her leg.

"Jen," he said softly. She shook her head and leaned back against the jolting wall, breathing in slowly and letting it out again, her eyes feverish and dull. She ran her hand over her thigh through the loose track pants she had on and moved it off of Jethro's legs, laying it flat in front of her.

She winced and shook slightly, grabbing his knee.

"We're almost there," he said, and she leaned over heavily against him, her body warm. He reached up to touch her face again and felt a thin sheen of sweat on her. Cursing silently, he put his arm around her and pulled her close, combing his fingers through her hair.

"I don't feel well," she said weakly. He could feel her swallow shakily against his shoulder, using him as her support and her strength. "Jethro," she said.

"Yeah?" he asked thickly. This was really getting to him, getting in his head and in his nerves. He wanted to kill someone, he was so angry. He felt powerless, absolutely powerless while she was hurting so much. He hadn't been able to prevent this and he couldn't help her now.

"Take my mind off of it," she said hoarsely, "Talk to me," she sucked in her breath and let it out again, breathing deeply, "Please, Jethro."

She must be desperate if she was asking him to talk. He didn't talk. They didn't talk. They had conversations; that's how he described it, they knew each other and they learned each other through actions and along the way, things were said. But they didn't talk. Not in the orthodox way.

"What do you want me to say, Jen?" he asked desperately, not caring if he sounded as hopeless as he felt. She laughed a little breathlessly and it made him smile despite everything, because they both knew how ridiculous it was to order him to talk.

"Tell me about boot camp," she said quietly, her eyes closing. She grit her teeth and pressed her lips together briefly. "Bitch about Diane, I don't care," she turned her face into him and her shoulders shook. He tightened his grip on her, wracking his brains for something he could do to ease the pain. "Your voice is comforting," she choked.

"I'm sorry I can't stop the pain, Jenny," he said softly.

"Oh for the love of God," she moaned quietly, digging her nails into his leg. "Don't break your moratorium on apologies for something that isn't your fault you egocentric idiot," she snapped, apparently forgetting she was hurting for the moment.

He smiled. She paused and gasped, holding her breath. She let it out slowly and then eased her grip on his leg, rubbing his thigh patronizingly.

"I said talk to me," she managed, "Not piss me off."

He smirked a little and started to respond when the old train lurched to a stop, sending both of them jerking forward. Jethro thrust his hand out behind Jenny to attempt and prevent her from slamming back into the wall, but she'd already reacted instinctively and tried to brace herself, lifting her legs and planting them firmly in front of her.

She cried out involuntarily in pain and then covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes closing tightly.

"Jenny," he said gruffly, sitting up straight next to her.

"_God_," she whimpered, reaching for him blindly.

He pulled her head against his chest and looked around him alertly, waiting for the guard who'd been lurking around their car and the adjacent ones to come.

"Breathe through it," he murmured, stroking her hair again.

She hit him, her knuckles colliding with his sternum with probably all that was left of her strength. He gave the top of her head an annoyed look and brushed it off. In the back of his mind, he grimly wondered if injuring him was going to end up being her way of dealing with the stress of her wound.

He heard the commotion of passengers getting up and grabbing bags and pulled a scratch pillow towards him, wedging it between him and Jenny as he carefully got up.

"Lay still," he said, as she watched him reach for their very meager things. They had their two suitcases from Prague and a bag of things he had gathered for emergencies or necessities. He knew where they were going.

A town outside of Belgrade, suburban, off of which was a farm Callan had given him access to, letting him know where to find a key and what not. It was apparently the safe-house Callan had occupied during his stint in Serbia, and was secluded.

The door to the car burst open violently and slammed against the wall. He saw Jenny jump in surprise and bite her lip to keep quiet as the stern guard swept in through the car, opening the door at the opposite end. He made a sort of mocking flourish and spoke sharply and harshly in Russian.

"You are to exit as quickly as possible. The train is running behind schedule."

Jethro nodded curtly, his glare just as harsh. He refused to communicate with the man when he was in such a charged state. He glanced at Jenny as he secured the back pack over his shoulders and took both suitcases, setting one down to approach her and take her arm.

She sat up slowly, blowing her hair out of her face, and he watched her eyes go blank and empty as she braced herself for the walking she'd have to do. Her jaw tightened again and he saw her shoulders tense as she stood up, the intensity of the pain shooting through her eyes briefly before she blocked it away, swallowing hard.

"Stay close to me," he ordered sharply.

"You think I'm going to wander?" she retorted breathlessly.

He smiled slightly and picked up the other bag, watching her like a hawk. He could only detect the slightest limp in her and even though she looked considerably sicker than she had in Prague, she didn't look suspicious. The guard barely had a second look at her as she made her way off the train slowly; a surprising turn of events, considering Jenny always turned heads.

Belgrade's train station was small, dirty, and crowded, and Jethro immediately tensed when they stepped onto the platform as he took in all the possible ways Jenny could get jostled or pushed in this crowd. He switched one of the suitcases to under his arm, clenching his muscle to hold it there, and took her arm above the elbow, offering her a little support and keeping her close to his body to give anyone who got even a hair too close the worst glare of their life.

His actions had become so cold and mechanical in the past hours simply to enable him to get through it. His goal was to get Jenny somewhere she could rest and find respite from the pain and he wasn't playing nice to accomplish that. He hailed a cab on the streets of Belgrade simply to take them to rent a car, because having a local know there were two Americans in a farmhouse just a ways off wasn't prudent.

The car he managed to practically swindle its dealer out of was small and very European, and he disliked it, but it would do. It was probably an hour's drive to where their destination was, and he just wanted to get there.

He watched Jenny sharply as she got in the backseat, slipping on of the suitcases under her knee to elevate her leg a little in hope that it might ease some pain. Moving quickly, he unzipped the backpack violently and fumbled for the some of the pain medicine he'd stolen from the hospital in Prague. He came up with Vicadin and handed her four, not caring for appropriate dosage.

Jenny dry swallowed them without batting an eyelid and leaned back, closing her eyes.

"I'm cold," she whispered, and he sighed. She already had her coat on and there was nothing else. He didn't understand how she could be cold when Serbia's temperature was considerably higher than Prague's or Russia's.

"Just hang in there, Jen," he murmured.

"Jethro," she asked.

"What?" he asked, almost pleadingly.

"Knock me out," she said hoarsely, "Just knock me out."

"I," he began shortly, pausing. It bothered him that he almost agreed, just because it meant she would stop hurting. He almost agreed to _hit_ her. "I can't, Jenny," he said quietly, and shut the door before she could say anything else.

He slid into the front seat and turned the heat in the car on high, uncaring if it got hotter than hell itself if it kept her warm. The colder she was, the more she would hurt.

He heard her ragged, distressed breathing like it was fed into his ears through a microphone and grimaced, gritting his teeth together to try and bear it. He glanced up at the rearview mirror and looked at her. He swore she looked paler. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted, breathing shallow still.

"Jen," he suddenly had an idea, an idea she'd given him by asking him to talk. "Tell me the rules."

"What?" she gasped, angry.

"The rules, dammit, recite them! Now!" he ordered, glaring at her.

She hesitated briefly, and then seemed to latch onto the idea; anything else she could do that made her concentrate on something other than the agony in her thigh would be beneficial at this point. He almost wished she had a weak enough constitution to pass out from pain.

"Rule one," she started firmly, and he listened to her work through them until it became like a mantra in his ears.

The roads became dustier, bumpier, and she found it harder to talk, her voice getting weaker, from exhaustion or what, he wasn't sure. She mumbled fifty in such a slurred way he wasn't sure she even knew what she was talking about. He made a sharp right turn, checking on her in the mirror again, his eyes flicking to the predawn horizon and the farmhouse he'd seen peek into view a little up ahead.

"You aren't done, Probie," he growled provokingly.

He navigated the short terrain left expertly, listening to her suppress herself in the backseat.

"Fifty-one. You love me," she stated.

He smiled tightly as he eased the car to a stop around the back of the white-washed, stucco farmhouse, barely taking a second glance at it as he killed the car's engine and got out of the car, yanking the back door open. Jenny opened her eyes and looked at him. He didn't know when she'd started crying, but there were tears all over her face.

She moved towards him, so used to hurting he wasn't even sure she was really aware of it anymore. She started to stand and he pulled her against him, making sure she took all of her scarce weight off of her leg.

"I can make it to the house," she protested stubbornly.

"No," he snapped, carefully picking her up, gentle with her injured leg so he wouldn't hurt her.

"I hate being carried—"

"Seniority," he pulled, glaring at her as he kicked the car door shut. He took her and the emergency backpack into the little Serbian farmhouse, seeking a bedroom. He found it quickly; full of blankets and pillows and unmade, probably left from Callan's occupation.

He lay Jenny down on it, sitting next to her and reaching for the waistband of her track pants. He slid them off, his mouth tightening when he saw the blood that had escaped onto her bandage. She turned her head, watching him sluggishly. She saw him reach for the medical supplied in the bag and swallowed hard, turning her face away.

Surely and gingerly, Jethro took off the sturdy outlying bandage and then picked away the bloody gauze, revealing the raw, burned skin on her thigh and the bullet hole high and scarring. He cleaned the blood away with a clean cotton rag, dabbing at it lightly. He clenched his jaw when he saturated another cotton rag with antiseptic and rubbed it over the injury.

Jenny tried to pull his hand away, a sob escaping her throat, but he grabbed her hand and held it back firmly, finishing the job of cleaning it. To ease some of the pressure, he wrapped it back up securely in only gauze and left the sturdier bandage for later, turning his attention back to her.

He put his hand to her forehead and went for a cloth soaked in cold water like he had when she'd had the flu in Paris, placing it gently over her head. He crawled up next to her, kicking off shoes, taking hers off, drawing pillows close to her.

Jenny reached for him, resting her head in his lap in exhaustion and misery. He put his hand in her hair and reached for her arm, stroking her skin soothingly, repetitively. He was going to be up with her all day, waiting for the pain medicine to kick in, and watching like a hawk to make sure it stayed kicked in. She didn't have to be quiet now, since they were alone and together, far away from those who would try to hurt them.

She could cry if she needed to.

* * *

Tired, with nerves worn thin, Jethro stumbled around the dark, fumbling for coffee or bourbon, both of which he knew Callan would have somewhere in the house. It was peacefully quiet and he was reveling in it. He was exhausted and sore, but Jenny was quiet and asleep, and that gave him a sense of accomplishment that provided enough energy to find caffeine or alcohol—whichever he stumbled across first.

It was Vodka he found in the cabinet, amongst a jumble of odd drinks. He cursed Callan under his breath and went for it anyway, considering it strong enough. He sloshed a fair among into a glass and took a generous swallow, his eyes stinging at the unfamiliarity of the hard, tasteless liquor.

It worked magic, having the effect of shocking his system to a more alert state. He let out a long-held breath and downed the rest of the glass, leaning forward with his head bowed on the stone cold counter top. He closed his eyes shortly and then looked up, squinting into the darkness of the expanse of a large living room in this farmhouse that reminded him of an American ranch home.

He liked the seclusion. He liked the humidity of this Serbian night. And he liked the quiet. The quiet here was calm, unthreatening, and natural—the quiet in Russia was just cold, the quiet in the Prague hospital had been unnerving and hellish.

Turning on the faucet, he splashed cold water on his face and then dried it with his shirt's sleeve. His eye caught smears of Jenny's blood on the cuff and sleeve and he starred at it, hypnotized, for a moment before he shrugged the shirt off, kicking it across the floor.

He shuddered, closing his eyes again.

Jenny had been able to fall asleep in the middle of the day, a few hours after the pain medicine kicked in. He'd woken her up a few hours ago to take more. She wasn't talking in her sleep and it bothered him; she always talked in her sleep. He knew she felt sick and she couldn't really rest in the haze of pain medication, and he was concerned about her eating by now.

He found himself on the brink of saying to hell with the operation and calling Ducky out here right now.

Jethro reached up and rubbed his forehead as he thought about it all, groaning softly. His gut wrenched when he thought about it. When he'd seen the blood…it had been like seeing Shannon's car during the investigation, and seeing the blood of his family covering it. It made him angry and it scared the hell out of him that she kept getting hurt, just like it did that Shannon and Kelly had been hurt.

It was like some God had a sick sense of humor; took pleasure in taking everything he loved away from him.

He dreaded the rest of this mission. Jenny's role was more sophisticated, more solo, and more prominent, and what they were doing consisted of plenty of work separate from each other. They were at Decker's command for certain things, and at the mercy of their own judgment. He knew, hauntingly, that there would be times when they would have to take action in order to preserve covers that wouldn't sit well with her, and he hated it.

Grimly, he dug his nails into the stone counter uselessly. There should be some kind of rule against falling in love with your partner. When had he decided that was a good idea?

It didn't matter now; there was no going back. She meant so much to him now. More than she knew. More than maybe he understood.

"Christ, Jen," he whispered to no one, looking up to the ceiling as if seeking higher council. "What are you doing to me?"

He pushed away from the sink, growing restless. He suddenly wanted distance, he wanted time to get a grip on himself, but he couldn't leave her to wake up and find him gone. He was torn, between accepting the intensity of the emotion and just letting her have all of him like he had Shannon, or pulling back and trying to stop it from happening again.

He took another shot of vodka and shook his head, swallowing hard before he left the bottle and made his way quietly back through the sitting room. He went back in the bedroom, his eyes drawn instantly to Jenny, sprawled amidst the comfortable blankets in her panties and the snug v-neck shirt she'd been wearing.

He rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his head to work out a kink, and dejectedly approached the bed; avoiding looking at the bottles of pills he had on the wicker table by it. He sat next to Jenny and touched her forehead delicately. She was still too warm, feverish, and he didn't know why.

He leaned over and brushed his lips against her temple, situating himself on the bed next to her. She shivered slightly and he reached for a light cover, pulling it over her and pulling one of the puffed up pillows towards himself. She shifted feverishly, flinching in her sleep, her head turning. She whimpered softly and he hushed her soothingly, stretched out next to her protectively.

Her head fell against his chest and he buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes in relief. It was unfair of him to need her comfort when she was the one hurting. But he couldn't get rid of the desire he had for her to shove his coddling touch away and yell at him that she wasn't a damsel in distress and she was fine.

He was protective, maybe even possessive, and chauvinistic; fine, he owned up to that—but none of those things meant he liked a hurt, sick, or weak Jenny. She was mired in a tangle of those characteristics so unlike her right now and he couldn't shake the creeping, pricking guilt that niggled him, whispering in the back of his head.

He lay awake while she slept fitfully, thinking about her, and trying not to dwell on the nightmares he was inevitably going to face.

* * *

_Things I learned while writing chapter three: 1)There are very few synonyms for the words 'pain' and 'hurt'. 2)Snow Days produce chapters!_

_-Alexandra_


	5. Peace, Pain, and that Farm House

_A/N: thanks to A'serene._

_Hey, I actually like this chapter. _

_"...I was just talking about your hair. It's good to see it long again. Reminds me of when we were in Serbia. Remember that farm house, nothing to do all day but--" -Jennifer Shepard, Season4Ep"Shalom"._

**

* * *

**

Leroy Jethro Gibbs massaged Jenny's shoulders gently, rubbing the hot, soapy bath water into her skin. Her head rested back languidly on his shoulder, and if he looked down, he could see the at ease look on her face and the slight flutter of her eyelashes. She breathed lightly, and hadn't said a word since he'd pulled her in with him.

She shifted her head and reached up to take his hand, pulling his arm down around her. He rested his other in her hair, looking at her expectantly. She tilted her head up and looked at him, smiling softly.

"Good idea," she complimented, lacing her fingers through his on her stomach.

She moved her head yet again and he felt her wince slightly as she moved her injured leg, lifting it out of the steamy water and elevating it on the elegant marble edge of the bathtub. The farmhouse was quaint, and nice, but the bathroom by far took the cake for most elegant room.

Jethro watched the water falling off of her leg and narrowed his eyes at the bullet wound. The burns and scratches were healing, the signs were clear, but the hole itself still looked dangerous and angry.

"Is it hurting?" he asked gruffly.

She shook her head. He disentangled his hand from hers and reached out to touch, his fingers lightly grazing the scratches, alert for any signs of discomfort from her. The soothing bath, and the strict care he'd taken of it, made it look much better than it could have. Still, the sight made him swallow hard.

"Jen," he said hoarsely.

"Don't," she warned tiredly. "I don't want to hear it, Jethro."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, resting his head on her shoulder lightly. He covered the injury carefully with his hand, applying gentle pressure. She hardly reacted, other than shifting for comfort in his lap. The constant stream of pain medication kept her numb enough to function, but he worried what would happen if they ran out, or if she became addicted.

"It isn't your fault," she said dully.

"How's your head?" he asked instead of addressing her statement. She was not going to succeed in convincing him otherwise. She hesitated, seeming to sense what he was thinking and hadn't spoken.

"Fine," she answered softly. "Headache's gone."

She leaned her head back against him again and moved her hand over his on her leg, tugging it away from her injury coaxingly.

"You're not the nursemaid type, Jethro," she said simply, pulling his hand where he could put it to more productive use.

He followed her lead and moved his hand slowly over the inside of her thigh, brushing against her. Jenny let go of his hand and rested hers on his thigh, leaning her head back into his shoulder again. The locks of her hair that hadn't seen water in a while were starting to cool and felt chilly on her shoulders, but Jethro was warm. He always was.

He slipped a finger inside her and she caught her breath, closing her eyes. He trailed his other hand up her abdomen and to her breasts, his touch relaxing and arousing. She murmured his name and turned her head towards him, pressing her lips to his neck gently.

"I love your hands," she mumbled, arching into his hand, her grip tightening on his thigh.

He turned his head and she tilted her head towards him, kissing him slowly while he caressed her. She leaned into his hard muscle heavily, her shoulders shivering as he slipped another finger in her, his tongue exploring her mouth, mimicking his fingers' movements elsewhere.

She curled her toes and bit her lip slightly, drawing back from his kiss, taking a deep breath. She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he loved the desire he found there. Her eyelashes fluttered and she leaned her forehead into his, her forehead wrinkling just slightly. She felt him smirk, leaning in to kiss her quickly, and withdrew his fingers, grazing her thighs lightly. She moaned softly, her lips puckering in frustration.

"Jethro," she hissed, "Don't make me do this myself."

He gave her a challenging look and slowly moved his fingers up the inside of her thigh again, waiting until she was hardly breathing with the anticipation. She gasped and closed her eyes again when he thrust his fingers back in her, making up for lost time with quick, decisive movements.

She let her head fall back against his shoulder and closed her eyes, biting down hard on her lip. Her nails dug into his thigh in under the bubbles and hot water and she curled her hand around the side of the bathtub, her knuckles paling.

"Jethro—"

But whatever she might have said was interrupted by her sharp intake of breath. He ran his free hand up to her cheek and through her hair, pulling gently, as he pushed her over the edge, his palm falling to her shoulder to massage gently as she shivered against him, moaning a string of incoherent encouragements.

She slumped against him as he drew his hand away from her, resting it on her shoulder as well and resuming his soothing massage of earlier, a smirk set firmly in place on his wicked lips as he kissed her temple innocently.

"God, I love it when you do that."

"I know," he answered gruffly, resting his cheek in her hair and closing his eyes.

She took a slow, steadying breath and let it out languidly, basking in the afterglow. The injury in her leg throbbed, no doubt from the rush of blood she'd just experienced, but she stoically ignored it. Unbeknownst to Jethro, she was trying to push her limits with the pain medication. The ache had been creeping back for an hour now, and yet she didn't want to keep drowning herself in the oblivion of Vicodin he was so fond of.

She gazed in front of her in the peaceful silence, her eyes on the marble walls and the shower in the corner, admiring the elegance of the bathroom. She hadn't been expecting such a delight in the quirky farmhouse that, in all other rooms, reminded her of an American Western ranch.

Sitting up slowly, Jenny eased her leg off the side of the white bath and turned, smiling slightly as Jethro's hands slipped through her heavy wet hair in protest. She felt him tense, displeased with her moving, and she met his narrow-eyed look as she shifted to face him, sloshing soapy water out of the tub and onto the tile.

She met his eyes, biting her lip and wincing as she maneuvered her knees on either side of him, straddling his hips, the position putting a strain on her thigh. He reached out to touch her face, his fingers brushing her lips, and glared at her.

"Easy," he growled warningly.

She shifted, her cheeks whitening a little at the pain, and she watched him wince at her reaction, swallowing hard, his eyes narrowing at her again. She moved so she could feel him stir against her thigh and settled down, her eyes on his blue orbs.

"Flexibility's kind of _shot_," she quipped, lifting one eyebrow, quite proud of herself for the choice of words.

"Jen," he snapped. "Stop stressing that injury."

He glared at her darkly, his eyes turning a deep navy, his jaw tightening as it always did when he was frustrated or annoyed or just pissed off. She figured it was a combination of all here, but that was what she wanted. She cut her eyes at him and looked at him for a long moment.

"You know that feeling?" she asked slowly, "The one that's in your eyes, and in the way you're tensing up right now? Anger, worry, fear," she paused, and smiled sarcastically, "not fear, I don't suppose, not from _you_. The others, though."

He looked at her hard, his face impassive, waiting for whatever philosophical, stubborn comment she was going to make.

"That feeling is what I dealt with every damn day in Paris, and then Positano. After you took that bullet, when I saw the pain in your eyes, every time you _bled_," her words stuck in her throat and he blanched when he saw her compress her lips as if to hold back sudden tears.

"Whoa, Jenny," he murmured, reaching up to touch her face again. She looked up to the ceiling and blinked a few times. "'S all right," he soothed. He didn't want her to cry. God, he'd seen enough of her crying to last him a lifetime, and if there were something he could do to never see it again, it would be done in a heartbeat.

She shook her head slightly, shaking his hand away, and her hair tumbled heavily over her shoulders, matting to her wet skin like spilled wine. Her eyes were sparkling and watery, but her jaw was set.

"The point is," she continued softly, her voice steady, "Now you understand what it's like, watching as someone suffers without wanting you to be there," she wet her lips hesitantly. "Difference is, I don't want to shut you out. I want you to trust me to know my limits, and I want you to understand that I'm going to hurt, and rushing the process might be unhealthy, but we don't have time to waste."

He looked at her sharply. They usually didn't say this much to each other; they didn't have talks or give speeches—unless they were fighting; those were the times when they both said the most, and when they hurt each other the most.

Jenny didn't seem to be waiting for an answer; she seemed to be meeting his eyes to make sure he got the point. He knew her stubbornness, but he still couldn't find it in him to stand by idly while she put herself through unnecessary pain.

She reached forward and caressed his cheek, leaning closer to him. Water from her hair dripped onto his chest and shoulders and her reached up to touch her waist, pulling her closer. She cocked her head at him in some weighty amusement.

"I'm not going to break, Jethro," she said quietly. "I can take care of myself. I don't _need_ you."

He looked at her impassively again, studying her emeralds eyes. She smiled at him softly and ran her petite fingers back through his hair, threading, coaxing his head towards her until his forehead was pressed against hers.

"I _want_ you," she clarified gently, her eyes fluttering closed.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. She relaxed her muscles and snuggled into him, sinking against his chest and back into the water, which, though still warm, was beginning to lose its soothing heat.

He thought about what she'd said, struggling with where his thought process took him. It bothered him that, for a sobering moment, he had recognized the difference in 'need' and 'want' and concluded that it was possible he needed her almost as much as he wanted her.

He hadn't felt like that since…in a long time.

She drew her hand out of his hair down the back of his neck, rubbing the pressure points expertly, loosening the tight, tense muscles in him. Breathing softly, she shifted her head and kissed his ear, biting gently on the lobe and wrinkling her nose against his cheek.

"Consider this your warning," she said firmly, but unthreateningly, "I am going to stand up. I don't like staying in the bath until the water gets cold."

Jethro growled quietly in the back of his throat but loosened his grip on her; wary of not having his hands free if she slipped and fell. He didn't want her to strain herself, but he didn't want her to hurt herself more fighting him either and he knew she would.

She leaned back and put her palms on his chest, smiling briefly as she stood up, her leg shaking a little. Immediately, he put out one of his hands for her to take and she did gratefully, squeezing his fingers. He glared at her as she stepped out of the tub, tugging her hand insistently from his and reaching for a towel that was hanging on a bar across the bathroom.

She wrapped it around herself and leaned against the countertop. Jethro watched the water drip off of her for a minute before reached for the drain and let the water begin to filter out, standing up and snatching a towel of his own from the rack.

Jenny looked at him and raised an eyebrow, holding her towel around her in the front. Jethro grinned and slung his around his neck carelessly, approaching her. She laughed as he picked her up and sat her on the counter behind her, loosening her hands from her towel and pulling it away from her.

She crossed her arms over herself in faux modest and shivered, giving him a pitiful look. He stepped closer to her and reached for her leg, maneuvering his hand under her knee and lifting it gently. He rested her foot on his knee and ran the towel over her leg lightly, drying, more careful as his path reached higher towards the injury on her thigh.

She leaned back on her hands, enjoying the treatment placidly. It was their second day in the Serbian farmhouse, and her first had been spent in a drug induced, unaware haze that she hardly remembered. This morning, when she'd woken up—slowly, due to the hold the pain medication exercised over her—she'd been in a lot less pain and felt considerably better, though she'd been weak from lack of food or hydration.

She hadn't realized Jethro was in bed with her until she tried to get up and he practically tackled her and tied her to the bed, growling at her that he'd get whatever she wanted. She wasn't one to complain about sweet gestures such as breakfast in bed, but she wasn't going to let Jethro think that behavior was going to fly for very long.

They still had a job to do when they went back to Russia, and she was aware she had very limited time to heal and start using her leg normally. In DC or Norfolk, or some European office where they were just doing detective work, she'd have had weeks, maybe. Here, her maximum might be a thirteen days.

Jenny rolled her head and closed her eyes, flexing her foot experimentally against Jethro's knee. Sharp pain shot up her leg and into her head and she flinched considerably, deciding not to do that again for the time being. The pain medicine was clearly wearing off, if the ache in her thigh was any indication.

Jethro snorted.

She opened one eye and then lifted her head, glaring at him.

"Are you laughing at me?" she asked incredulously.

He gave her a solemn look and shook his head, holding up the wet towel innocently. She gave him a disbelieving look.

"You just laughed at me!" she accused, shocked, "After I hurt myself!"

He shrugged, not looking the least bit apologetic.

"It isn't my fault you think you're invincible," he informed her, tapping her knee playfully. Her leg twitched on reflex and she smirked, drawing back a little in case he decided to tickler her for some horrible reason.

She arched an eyebrow at his comment and snatched the towel away from him.

"If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black…" she remarked, wrapping the towel around her and shoving her drying hair over her shoulders and down her back. "Help me down," she ordered, reaching for his shoulder.

She gripped his arm and scooted forward, reaching for his other shoulder as well. He took her arm and braced her as she hopped to the floor, careful not to let her put too much weight on her leg.

Smiling, she pushed him away from her gently and left the bathroom for the bedroom, moving slowly but determinedly. He looked after her, grumbling, and then finished drying off himself, picking his jeans and t-shirt back up from the floor. They had very limited choice in wardrobe while they were here, considering they had only what they'd initially brought to the Czech Republic and that was little.

He was exiting the bathroom when she reappeared in the doorway, dwarfed in one of his long-sleeved shirts, panties, and nothing else. He gave her an appreciative look and leaned against the frame, cocking an eyebrow to ask what she wanted.

"I'm starved," she announced, and he gave her a relieved look.

"Thank God," he muttered, reaching out and dragging his fingers through her hair to mess it annoyingly. She glared at him in protest and leaned up to ruffle his in turn, chucking him under the chin patronizingly at the same time.

"Is there anything good to eat?" she asked with interest, blocking his hand when he tried to reach for her hair again. She had only eaten the small amount of bread and a bowl of cereal he'd provided since they'd been here, and hadn't explored the house much.

He shrugged.

"Callan's only been gone from here a week or so," he noted gruffly. "There's got to be something in the fridge. Knowing Callan," he added, snorting and shaking his head.

"Mmmm," Jenny murmured, reaching up and taking Jethro's t-shirt in her hands, pulling him forward. "So cook me something, lover."

He gave her a bemused look and reached for her hands, removing them slowly from his shirt.

"That an order?" he asked.

She nodded primly, reaching for his face this time. He stepped closer to her and she moved back to hold her ground; Jethro noticed she favored her leg unconsciously and gave it a dirty look. Jenny's eyes followed his, and while she was distracted, he knocked her hands away from him and swept her up effortlessly, smirking.

"Leroy. Jethro. Gibbs. Put me down!" she snarled, thrusting a tight fist into his chest in protest at being so unceremoniously picked up.

He grinned at her predicament and held her more firmly, wandering out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and towards the open spaces of the house, quite aware that she couldn't really struggle without hurting herself.

She punched him in the chest again.

"Stop this foolishness. I am not an object! You can't just tote me around the–JETHRO PUT ME DOWN!" she screamed at him, nipping at his shoulder. She squirmed. She hated being carried and he knew it. He was just bugging her under the guise of making sure she didn't hurt herself walking.

Jenny sank her teeth into his shoulder. He shook his arm blithely.

"Oh, _please_, Jen," he patronized, rolling his eyes. "That's like a puppy going after a bear."

She stopped biting and glared at him.

He approached the couch nonchalantly and set her down, being careless and yet gentle about it at the same time. She scrambled away from him rather quickly considering her handicap and glared from the far side of the couch, pouting.

"I am not impressed."

"I thought women liked chivalry?" he snorted arrogantly.

"You know what I like? I like _not_ being carried by big, pushy chauvinists," she retorted sarcastically, folding her arms. He couldn't help it; he smiled again. She just looked so damn cute when she huffed at him like that. He tilted his head at her and caught her eye. "Stupid sexy blue eyes," she muttered under her breath.

He crawled onto the couch and went towards her on all fours, smirking, his eyebrow raised.

"You think my eyes are sexy?"

She inched away as he approached, biting back a smile in order to keep a stern face. She'd tried to swat at him but he trapped her on the couch, planting his legs on either side of hers and invading her personal space.

"Jethro," she breathed, leaning back a little. She laughed.

"Yours are pretty nice too," he complimented, pressing his mouth to her forehead gently.

Jenny laughed again, reaching out to smack his shoulder lightly. She crinkled her nose adorably and pursed her lips, cocking her eyebrow at him attractively. He grinned wolfishly and moved his hand to his t-shirt she wore, pulling at the collar.

"Know what else are nice?" he asked suggestively, leaning forward as if to peek down the shirt.

She hit his hand away and giggled, both brows going up this time in surprise at his fluffy behavior. This was uncharacteristic of Jethro, being so playful.

"What is wrong with you?" she snickered, glancing up at him through her lashes.

He leaned forward and buried his head in her shoulder, breathing in deeply. He mumbled her name and kissed up her neck lightly, tickling her throat. She tilted her head back and laughed again, shying away from him.

"I miss your laugh," he said in her hear, kissing that too, "You haven't laughed since," he thought about it briefly, "Positano."

"Not true," she chastised softly.

He nodded stubbornly. She smiled and leaned her head against him, unable to stop the smile on her face now. Maybe he was right. There hadn't been any real laughter lately, but then…there hadn't been anything to laugh about.

"Hey Jethro?" she whispered smugly.

"Mmmhmmm?" he mumbled, busy playing in her hair.

"If you're trying to hold my hand, that's not it," she informed him primly, her breath hitching just a little at his explicit touch. He smirked and sniggered, giving her a devilish look. She started laughing again, pulling her good leg up to press her knee into his abdomen softly.

"Is this what happens when you don't have bourbon for a week?" she asked smartly.

"Yes, Jenny," he answered solemnly, deadpan, "I start thinking your hands are between your legs."

She burst into giggles, leaning forward to kiss that wicked smirk off of his face. She wriggled her arms out from her sides and pulled him towards her, shifting to get more comfortable. Unconsciously, she lifted her leg as he moved his and his knee collided with the bullet wound on her thigh.

Jethro leapt backwards the moment she gasped, wild, concerned eyes studying her white face as he reached for her leg worriedly.

"Jen?" he questioned hoarsely, resting his palm near the reddened wound.

"Its okay," she said softly, "My fault." Jenny tilted her head back and took a few deep breaths, letting her eyes fall shut to breathe through the sharp, throbbing pain while it flared and then subsided.

Jethro sat back on his knees and looked at her, drawing his hand slowly over her leg. He got up slowly and she looked up at him, opening one eye curiously.

"It's going to happen, Jethro," she said dully, annoyed that he'd act so righteous or guilty whichever it was.

"I'm going to dress it," he answered gruffly, disappearing.

Jenny rolled her eyes, sitting up a little and leaning forward to look at the injury herself. The bath seemed to have done wonders for it; instead of looking bloody and sick like it had earlier, it looked clean—red, bruised, and scratched, but clean if that made any sense.

She ran her fingers over it hesitantly and probed the muscle around it, chewing on her cheek as the ache started. She wished she were in DC, with access to a doctor who could tell her how to take care of this.

Jenny frowned, noticing it had started to bleed, and looked up to see Jethro reappear, his dreaded backpack full of stolen medical supplies in tow. She narrowed her eyes at it. Everything in it was unpleasant, save the pain medication—and even that, she distrusted.

"Come here," he grunted, crouching down in front of the couch. Jenny made a show of rolling her eyes and sighing dramatically as she shifted and let him have her leg, resting her heel on his thigh.

He selected the bottle of antiseptic from the backpack and a cotton ball. She gave them both a distasteful look and inched her toes up the inseam of his jeans, cutting her eyes at him to see if she was successfully diverting him. She wasn't.

_Yet_.

She would just have to redouble her efforts, she concluded, as he started applying the antiseptic in steady swipes, clearing blood away and setting the wound on fire with the sting. Jenny ground her teeth together, tensing her muscles to brace herself.

She pressed her foot into Jethro's groin and he snapped his eyes onto hers, glaring. She managed an innocent look.

"Stop trying to seduce me," he ordered seriously.

Jenny laughed smugly.

"Jethro, with you, I don't have to _try_."

He scowled and looked back to her wound, cleaning it carefully. He tossed the cotton ball to the side and reached for the fluffy padding that he'd wrap under gauze and a stiff Ace bandage. He wet the padding with a bit of antiseptic and set it over the wound, earning a glare and a redoubled attempt from her to distract him via groin.

"Not working, Jen," he informed her gruffly, wrapping gauze around the stinging padding and securing it with medical tape. He reached for the Ace bandage he'd removed before their bath and shifted her leg forward on his thigh, giving him better access to her.

"No?" Jenny asked sweetly, tilting her head. "I think I'm getting a rise out of you."

"Cute," he retorted at the double entendre.

"I thought so," she answered primly, wincing as he tightened the bandage, sending waves of pain through her. She hissed under her breath and he paused, massaging her leg soothingly. He finished the wrapping more slowly and stared at his work moodily when he was finished.

Jenny smirked wickedly and shifted her foot explicitly. Jethro grunted and grabbed her by the toes, giving her a look from the floor. She giggled.

"I don't want you staring another hole through my leg," she said, shrugging.

He deposited her foot to the floor and stood, stepping over her legs to sit down on the couch next to her, his playful mood sapped. Jenny smiled, a little disheartened by his quick mood swing, and leaned into him, trying to make him feel better.

"I get the feeling you'd do anything I asked you to right now," she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. He grumbled something incoherently. She sighed and straightened up, standing (to his consternation) and turning to face him. She reached for his shoulders as she straddled his lap, the stiffness of the ace bandage fighting against the position. She forced it to behave against the discomfort.

She cocked her head at him inquisitively, arching an eyebrow.

"Do you remember when we were just partners, back in DC?" she asked nostalgically. He narrowed his eyes, studying her. She went on. "When I got hurt then, it upset you, but you couldn't show it—because we were just two strangers on the same team," she caught his eye and gave him a pointed, serious look. "I liked that better than this stupid, sulky, martyr act."

"I'm not allowed to be pissed you're hurt?" he snapped, more forcefully than she expected. Jenny gave him a stern look.

"No."

She reached for him and ran her knuckles over his jaw and cheek, the unshaven stubble tickling her skin. An appreciative smile crept across her lips as she threaded her fingers into his silver hair, shaggier than she'd ever seen it. He closed his eyes as she massaged his scalp gently.

"Speaking of sexy," she murmured, a throwback to their earlier verbal sparring. "Your hair," she noted admiringly, putting her forehead against his. "It looks good long. So _rugged_," she giggled.

He opened his eyes and looked at her skeptically. She fluttered her lashes at him becomingly and he smiled reluctantly. She stole a kiss and brushed her lips against his jaw, raising an eyebrow.

"I thought I told you to cook me dinner," she mused.

"Yes, ma'am," he responded seriously, and lifted her off of him at the waist. He pushed her back against the decorative couch pillows and stood up swiftly while she watched him in amusement.

"Don't call me '_ma'am'_," she scoffed. "I'll get a dominatrix complex. Next thing you know, I'll cuff you to your boat naked and whip you."

He smirked and saluted her.

"Yes, _sir_," he corrected, stalking away. She snorted, shaking her head, and then shrieked in surprise when he swooped down from behind the couch on his way to the kitchen and bit her neck gently.

She swatted him half-heartedly and leaned back, listening to him bang things around in the kitchen. She wasn't overly concerned about what he was going to make as long as she got something to eat.

"Jen, do you drink vodka?" Jethro asked loudly.

"Don't ask dumb questions, Jethro," she retorted.

He snorted and went on making noise in the kitchen. She lay back and relaxed, flexing her foot back and forth to work the lower muscles of her injured leg. She wanted to keep it as strong as possible.

She was watching herself move her foot with a little too much interest when she suddenly noticed Jethro wasn't making noise anymore and looked up suspiciously, glancing around. She waited a few moments and then started to lean up and look around.

Something grabbed her around the shoulders.

Jenny screamed. She stopped when she realized Jethro was laughing smugly into the back of her neck, kneeling behind her. Scowling, she began to pry his fingers off of her, being extra generous with her nails.

"Bastard," she accused, turning to look at him.

He just smirked and crawled around to the front of the touch, pushing the wicker table in the middle of the room away easily.

"Get on the floor," he said.

She considered him for a moment and then complied, sliding to the floor and lifting the good leg towards her, resting an arm on it lazily. She looked at him expectantly, waiting.

"Why are we boycotting the furniture?" she asked snarkily.

"Physical therapy," he grunted.

She lifted a brow and lowered her voice.

"Is that a metaphor?" she asked suggestively.

He gave her a look and shook his head slowly.

"Lay on your back," he ordered, pointing to the ground.

She shifted and did as he asked, putting one arm behind her head to support her neck. He straightened out her bent leg and moved to kneel next to her waist, pushing the hem of his shirt, so large on her, up above her naval. He rested his hands on her injured thigh.

"Are you _sure_ it wasn't a metaphor?" she asked, smirking at the ceiling as he ran his hands over her leg tenderly.

"I'm loosening your muscle, Jen."

"Is _that_ what they call it these days?"

He snorted continuing to massage the skin around her Ace bandage-wrapped injury until she was indeed feeling looser. She started to notice she was hurting more as he touched her, though; it might be time to take something. She steeled herself against numbing the pain with Vicodin for just a little longer. It was bearable. She could take it.

He moved down her leg to her calve and cupped one hand around her bare foot, pushing her leg up slowly.

"Tell me when it hurts," he said, his eyes on her injury.

Jenny bit her lip, but didn't say anything when it _did_ start to hurt. She waited until he had her knee pretty much in the air until she let out the breath she'd been holding.

"Ow," she stated.

He gently stretched her leg back on the carpet.

"When did it _really_ start hurting?" he asked skeptically, giving her a glare.

"Would I lie to you?" she retorted sweetly.

He snorted and let her rest a minute, rocking back on his knees. She licked her lips and returned her eyes to the ceiling to study it, trusting him to do whatever was beneficial for her. He took her leg again after a few moments and did the same thing again, and then two more times after that, holding the painful position longer each time.

"What are you cooking?" she asked tightly, swallowing hard as he applied pressure to her calve, bending her leg back towards her stomach slightly.

"Hamburgers," he answered, distracted in his administrations.

She quirked her brow at the ceiling, thinking it odd.

"I think it was all Callan ate while he was here," Jethro said snidely, and she could practically hear him roll his eyes.

He let her leg back down and rested his hand on her hip.

"Turn over," he said.

She did, resting her head on both her arms this time. He ran his hands over her again before he lifted her foot and bent her leg back, bringing her heel towards the back of her thigh. The second time he did it, he held the position longer, and heard her muffle a gasp in her arms.

Squeezing her ankle gently, he reached up between her legs with his free hand and she gasped.

"Interesting turn of events," she choked out, as the stirring in her lower stomach distracted her from the aching in her leg.

"Just relax, Jenny."

He put her through stretches for another fifteen minutes; hardly saying a word, even when he knew it was hurting her badly. He finally sat back on his knees between her legs, which were lifted on either side of him so he could have rested both hands on her knees if he wanted to. She groaned in relief, devoid of the strength to even glare at him.

She was sweating, and she wasn't sure if it was from trying not to cry and testing her endurance while he kept her muscle in shape or because he kept touching her when she was least expecting it in an effort to calm her down.

"Jenny?" he asked.

"Fine," she said shortly, through gritted teeth.

"One more thing," he muttered, leaning forward and hovering over her, his hands placed on either side of her head. He met her eyes and she swallowed hard, wishing she'd had a minute to hide the distress sure to be written all over her face. "See if you can wrap your legs around my waist."

In spite of herself, she laughed sarcastically, and arched an eyebrow.

"I knew it," she said, smirking, "Physical therapy my ass. This was a metaphor. For sex."

"Jen, if I wanted to have sex with you, I wouldn't be sneaky about it. I'd just throw you down on the bed and give it to you how you like it," he retorted sternly.

She blinked at him, silenced.

"That was hot, Jethro," she said, impressed. He gave her an arrogant grin and nudged her leg insistently, waiting.

Jenny drew her bottom lip into her mouth and easily wrapped her free leg around his waist, curving her foot into his back. She took a deep breath as she moved the other, gritting her teeth against the sharp pain that ricocheted through her nerves. She managed to get her heel on his back and used the rest of her strength to lock her leg around him, her hurt thigh pressing into his hip.

She let her breath out and threw her head back, biting her tongue. He pushed her hair behind her ear and ran his thumb over her mouth. She looked up at him and glared.

"Was it good for you?" she asked tightly, warningly; and he reached back to hold her hurt thigh to him, taking some of the strain off of her. He eased back and then gently stretched her leg back out. Jenny turned and buried her face into the floor, curling away from him. She screamed softly in frustration, the sound muffled by shaggy, tacky carpet.

"Jen," Jethro called, almost whining, as he stretched out next to her and tried to peek at her hidden face. "Jenny," he coaxed sweetly. She sighed, looked at him, and grimaced. "Want to eat?" he asked.

She nodded. Jethro stood and reached down to give her a hand, but she took it to help her sit up and just sat back against the couch, her shoulders slumped. He went to the kitchen to get their food, aware she'd probably only take the pain medicine she needed if he wasn't watching her.

He dished food onto plates and filled two cups with vodka, more than generous with the alcohol.

Jenny took the alcohol from him gratefully as he sat down next to her, placing a pill in her mouth and chasing it down with the vodka. She bowed her head for a moment, her forehead resting against the cup and Jethro reached over to brush her hair back, pushing a plate of food towards her.

She straightened up and took it, balancing it on her legs easily. He watched her for a minute, studying her, but she didn't look at him and he finally backed off, positive he would irritate her if he hovered.

She picked at the food, eating it sparsely. Jethro didn't know if it was because she was pissed at him or because she wasn't feeling well again. He hadn't wanted to force discomfort on her, but she had made a point—she needed to recover, and they didn't have time to waste.

"Eat, Jenny," he ordered

"Fruit doesn't really go with hamburgers," she retorted, picking up a slice of apple that had found its way onto her plate.

"There had to be some kind of side," Jethro answered with a glare, "Sorry, no French fries."

Jenny shrugged and nibbled at the apple, examining her food. Apples, vodka, and hamburgers. A trip into the town was definitely in order. She voiced her opinion mildly.

"I don't want to," Jethro answered promptly. She gave him a surprised look out of the corner of her eye.

"You don't want to?" she repeated incredulously. "May I ask why you're so against it?"

"People," he grunted darkly, and Jenny smiled to herself. It made sense. Jethro was probably thrilled to be off in this secluded place with no idiots, media, or bad guys to deal with, and he'd been loath to traipse into town if it wasn't absolutely, vitally necessary.

She munched on her food, concentrating on ignoring the pain in her leg and forgiving Jethro for deciding out of the blue to play physical therapist. The stretching had been a lot rougher than she expected, and she was angry with herself for being affected so much by it. She half wanted to curl up and cry. Instead she took a shot of vodka, and started a conversation.

"How far back do you and Callan go?" she asked neutrally. It had been something she'd been meaning to find out, considering Callan had known Diane, or seemed to.

"Callan's been at NCIS longer than me," Jethro answered gruffly. "He doesn't do much case work. Agent Afloat, intelligence—liaison with foreign agencies."

"Ever work with him before?" Jenny queried.

"Couple of times," Jethro replied with a shrug, "After I joined up. He helped us bust Kyle Boone, but half the agency worked that case."

Jenny nodded absently, remembering seeing the news of Kyle Boone for weeks on end while he slaughtered women around DC. She'd been dealing with her father's death at the time it came to a crescendo. She didn't know Jethro had been on the case.

She snorted.

"I thought the FBI busted Boone."

"Yeah," Jethro scoffed, "You and everyone else."

Her lips quirked up in a small smile and she ate a little more, thoughtfully. She was curious about Jethro's choice of NCIS for a career after the Marines. She didn't know how long he'd been there before her, but he had a decent amount of seniority over the DC agents.

"Callan knew Diane?"

Jethro snorted derisively.

"You could say that," he muttered, and when he saw Jenny looking at him and raise an eyebrow, he explained: "Callan put Diane's ex-fiancée in jail for embezzlement. She came storming in to NCIS to find out where we were keeping him and kick his ass—"

Jenny laughed, interrupting Jethro's story.

"And ran into your dashing, comforting arms?" she rolled her eyes.

"No," Jethro corrected sternly, "She spilled my coffee."

Jenny gasped.

"And you _married_ her?"

"I marched her down to the coffee shop to buy me a new one," he corrected again. "_Then_ I married her."

"_How_ romantic," Jenny drawled sarcastically, taking a generous swallow of vodka.

"Shut-up."

Jenny snickered mockingly. She felt better eating now, and the conversation was distracting her from any discomfort, so she proceeded.

"When did you join NCIS, Jethro?"

He didn't answer straight away.

"1991," he answered shortly.

"Why NCIS?" she continued simply, and then, inexplicably, she knew she'd said the wrong thing. He didn't answer; he put his food down. Jenny sighed, looking up to the ceiling.

"Jethro," she began calmly, intending on blowing it off and moving to something else, but he misunderstood her mild start and tensed.

"Drop it, Jen," he snapped.

She drew away from him tangibly. Her eyes grew hesitant as she looked at him; the hard line of his jaw and the firm set of his mouth and shoulders. He looked so angry—but not angry, at the same time. Distressed.

"That bad, Jethro?" she asked softly, thinking for a split second he might open up to her. She was sorely mistaken. He just got up when she spoke again and she could only watch him walk away.

Jenny didn't bother to watch him go; she turned away and threw her head back against the couch, biting down hard in frustration. She didn't understand why he did this. It made her feel so distant from him. It annoyed her because she'd given so much to him and she felt like she had more on the line.

Yet, there was always the voice in her conscious that reminded her she didn't tell him everything, either. He didn't know her goals, or what brought her to NCIS. He had never asked, and she didn't know what she'd tell him if he did.

Jenny pushed her food away, her appetite lost again.

She nursed the vodka in her hands, inhaling the scent, and vaguely considered the fact that everything might seem nicer if she got drunk.

* * *

Jenny found, in her aimless search for something to do while Jethro brooded, a stash of books that she assumed were Callan's in a kitchen cabinet—though she had no idea why he'd put them there.

She'd devoted time to reading one. They were nonfiction historical studies, books on war and tactical espionage. To say the least they were interesting. She hadn't meant to become so absorbed in the one she'd picked up; it was when she started to strain her eyes in the suddenly darkened room that she realized it had been a while, and Jethro still had not reappeared.

She closed her book slowly and rubbed her forehead tiredly, yawning. It must be late. She was curled on the couch—as much as she could be curled with her leg. She wasn't hurting except for her head. She had a killer headache, and felt sick.

"Jethro?" she called, waiting to see if he'd answer. He didn't, which told her he wasn't in the house. Jenny shifted her feet off the couch and stood up slowly, testing her leg. She felt nothing, a nod to the painkillers, and started towards the wide windows of the living room He wasn't at the front of the house.

Gingerly, she wandered around until she caught sight of him out back of the farmhouse. The back door was open, blocking the night with just a screen door. She pushed the door open slowly and stepped out, her eyes falling on his turned back.

He was just standing there. She was sure he heard her approach. It was muggy and humid outside but it felt good, and the area was so secluded and peaceful that it didn't bother her she was in the open in a shirt and pretty much nothing else. She could hear crickets, and wind rustling the tall stalks of grass. The sounds were so soothing.

She felt like the ground was tilting under her a little as she walked forward and shook it off, but when she reached out to touch Jethro gently, she leaned more heavily than she meant to on him.

He turned and took her arm, giving her a searching look. Jenny opened her mouth slightly, fumbling for something to say, but Jethro shook his head slightly and tugged her forward into his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

She relaxed into him, relieved, basking in the warmth of Serbian night.

"It's beautiful out here," she whispered hoarsely, her voice betraying more of her emotion than she meant it to.

Jethro nodded, resting his chin on her head gently. He slipped his hands under her shirt and splayed them against the bare skin of her back, feeling her breathe. She felt a little clammy, even if it was almost hot outside.

Jethro took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair. He had been thinking a lot, while he was out here alone.

"NCIS," he said quietly, "because I didn't have anything left."

He left it at that, and Jenny knew she wouldn't hear anything else. She gripped his shirt and swallowed hard, closing her eyes briefly to stave off dizziness. He ran his hand through her hair and coaxed her head back, studying her face. His forehead creased with concern and he pressed the back of his hand to her temple.

"You feel okay?" he asked suspiciously. Jenny smiled weakly and nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. He looked at her skeptically, his eyes curiously guarded. He loosened his grip on her a little and she turned pale.

She turned away from Jethro, covering her mouth with her hand. He started forward and swept her head off of her neck and into his hand, recognizing the signs that she was about to be sick. He rested his hand on her back while she emptied the contents of her stomach, coughing.

Gently, he pushed her down onto a bench, crouching in front of her. She slumped in front of him, looking annoyed. He figured letting her drink hadn't been the most brilliant idea. Jenny wrinkled her nose and pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

"Just a minute, Jen," he murmured, straightening and retreating to fetch her a glass of water. She took it from him gratefully and washed the taste from her mouth. He felt a stab of guilt seeing her feeling sick again; he couldn't shake the notion that his behavior had someone influenced it.

"Jenny," he said, drawing her attention. He put his hands over hers in the water glass. "You said earlier that fear didn't apply to me," he said gruffly, his hands running over hers, "Something along those lines. You described," he paused, clearly struggling, "in the hospital in Prague. You described how it felt just before Pretskaya shot you. The—"

"Terror," she supplied, raspy, clearing her throat shakily.

He nodded curtly.

"That…terror," he said slowly, "That's how I felt when I saw you on the Cathedral floor."

Jenny gently extricated her hands from his and set the glass of water down, her eyes stinging. Jethro stood and straddled the bench next to her. She lifted a hand to her eyes and covered them briefly, before tilting her head to the starry sky and looking over at him through her eyelashes.

He reached for her and she let him pull her towards him, putting her wounded leg up on the bench and letting the other one rest on the ground. He draped his arms over her shoulders and pressed a chaste kiss to her throat.

"Fresh air might help if you feel sick," he murmured, shifting comfortably. She adjusted her head on his shoulder and looked up. She listened to his heart beat out a rhythm under her shoulder, steady and soothing.

She could forget the part of Jethro she could never touch when he opened up to her like that, because it served as a personal reminder to her of all that she kept locked away from him.

* * *

_What I decided while writing Chapter 4: 1)madpsychogirl and a'serene are incredibly distracting 2) I want to spend a week in a farmhouse...a warm one._

_-Alexandra_


	6. Nothing to Do All Day But

_AN: Thanks to A'serene!_

**

* * *

**

Jennifer Shepard smirked lazily as she rummaged around in the junk that lay in a haphazard mess on the wicker table next to the bed. Pain medication, wallets, IDs, gun cartridges—it was all spread out within reach of the bed and beneath the table lay the paltry luggage they had with them. All conveniently located.

She fumbled with the oval-shaped object she was looking for and finally managed to pick it up, sitting up and pushing her hair messily out of her face. She smiled fondly at it as she curled into the sheet she was tangled in and got out of bed. She wanted Jethro to go into town and fetch them amenities. This was the very object that would force him to do it.

Wincing as she tested the endurance of her leg, she started a careful walk towards the bedroom door, pausing in the doorway when she saw Jethro sprawled out on the floor in sweat pants and nothing else, his eyes closed.

She raised her eyebrows at the spectacle and smiled indulgently, tilting her head against the wood frame of the door. He propped one leg up and put an arm under his neck.

"As much as I hate to disturb your peaceful recovery from your early morning run," she announced blithely, not one bit upset about it. "You need to _run_ to town. Preferably soon."

He groaned at her petulantly and opened one eye, looking at her upside down in the doorway. Jenny smiled sweetly and let the blanket covering her shoulders slip a little as she held up her prize, tapping her finger against it slowly.

"Hmm, can't see it," he drawled innocently, "You'll have to come over here and get on top of me."

He grinned and closed his eyes again, settling back down on the floor. Jenny rolled her eyes and crept forward to him, nudging him gently with her foot when she approached. He swatted her foot away and she nudged him in the head with it.

"Jen," he growled.

"Jethro," she growled back. "You are _really_ going to want to go into town," she stressed, finally getting a little more of his attention. He opened both eyes and looked up, sighing heavily.

"Why?" he asked, sitting up and rubbing his forehead absently.

Jenny held up her object between two fingers and flicked the clasp of it open, revealing a container that was, tragically, empty of a few very necessary pills. Jethro froze in rubbing his face and narrowed his eyes.

"Is that your—"

"Birth control," she interrupted, nodding seriously.

"And it's—"

"Empty," she finished for him, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm going to town," he announced immediately, standing up. Jenny rolled her eyes and snapped the oval closed, tossing it behind him onto the couch. He glanced towards it, glared menacingly as if it was the worst possible thing he'd ever laid eyes on, and turned back to Jenny, looking her up and down unabashedly.

He pulled her towards him and tumbled back towards the couch, reaching up to tangle his hands in her knotted hair. She shrieked and reached out to brace the fall, laughing breathlessly as she slumped against him, the sheet hindering her movement and putting her ultimately at his mercy.

"What else do you want from town, your highness?" he mocked huskily, burying his lips in her hair.

"Some decent food," she murmured. "Fruit and something sweet…I'm sick of vodka," she added, furrowing her brow. He nodded, making notes of her requests in his head. Jenny lifted her head and propped it on her palm, smiling at him.

"How's your leg?" he asked, catching her eye.

"Better," she answered quietly, with a small shrug. "Frustrating," she added with a half-smirk.

Jethro snorted, aware of what she was referring to.

"Payback's a bitch," he informed her gruffly, flashing back to Positano.

Jenny smiled softly and rested her head on his shoulder again, running her fingers through his shaggy hair. He found the lighter bandage she'd settled for using and splayed his hand out over it applying pressure. Jenny didn't even flinch.

She pressed her lips along his jaw in feather-like kisses, smiling through them, and he ran his hand over her back, trying to find gaps in the sheet where he might brush his hand against her bare skin.

"You're in a good mood," Jethro remarked.

She tugged on his hair playfully.

"A night of physical _therapy_ tends to have that effect," she retorted cheekily, her nose wrinkling against his earlobe. "You are all sweaty," she informed him. He laughed.

He'd been out for a run to keep in shape before she'd woken up. He'd figured out fairly quickly last night that it didn't take much coaxing from Jenny—even if she was injured, and he was curiously protective—to get him to make love to her. It had only annoyed him a little that she'd kept repeatedly hurting herself.

"You know, you can go to town any minute now. _Any_ minute," she coaxed, poking him in the shoulder insistently. She knew he'd bring back something interesting if he went, whether it was a souvenir or some strange food he thought she'd like.

He groaned, whiny, and shook his head, wrapping his arms around her instead. She squirmed away and glared at him.

"Go," she ordered, glaring at him again when he didn't look at all like he was going to move. "Jethro, I don't understand why you are so against going to town."

"Don't want to leave you alone," he responded, finding an opening in the sheet. His hands crept onto her bare skin and traced light, feathery circles. She shivered and yet managed to keep a stern disposition.

"I have a gun," she reminded him, rolling her eyes. "Know how to use it, too, shocking as that may be."

He looked at her balefully.

"You're at a disadvantage with your limited mobility," he answered sharply.

"And just what do you think is going to attack me, Jethro? A _chipmunk_? We're in the middle of nowhere!" she rolled her eyes again for good measure and leaned down to touch her nose to his patronizingly. "I'm fairly sure I can handle any killer chipmunks."

He grumbled, unconvinced. She sighed loudly, raising her eyes to the ceiling. Slipping her hand down his side and fumbling around for her devastatingly empty container from a few minutes ago, she looked at him pointedly, and finally held it up dramatically.

"If you do not go into town, Jethro," she began threateningly, "you won't get laid until we get back to St. Petersburg."

He considered her, looking forlornly at the empty birth control clasp.

"There should be some way to permanently prevent pregnancy."

"Oh there is," Jenny fired back darkly, giving him a menacing look. "It's called castration. Familiar with it?"

Jethro winced and pushed Jenny away at the shoulders.

"I'm going, I'm going," he placated, muttering incoherently. Jenny reclined back and watched him get up and scuffs his feet defiantly as he prepared to go. She snuggled into her sheet and sighed contentedly, enjoying the warmth of the air. She had persuaded Jethro to let the windows remain indefinitely open, as the humid air gave the house a nice, cozy feel.

He walked behind the couch, leaned down, and kissed her on the top of the head, pulling her hair playfully.

"'Bye, Jen," he murmured.

"Oh, Jethro, I _am_ going to miss you," she simpered dramatically, flashing him a grin. She felt more than saw him roll his eyes and listened as he quietly left the house, the screen door in front banging softly.

Jenny got up slowly after he was gone, adjusting to the quiet that descended on the house. She wrapped the sheet tight around her and stood from the couch, tentatively putting as much weight on her leg as it would handle without protest.

She was getting better, that was for sure, and she planned on using the alone time while Jethro was to improve more at walking. Mobility was okay, but it was the pressure of her weight that seemed to be the worst, and it was forcing her to limp.

Her first objective was to get dressed. As deserted as this part of the area seemed to be, she didn't quite fancy walking around naked. She chose jeans, because she didn't have anything cooler, a tank top, and a long reddish sweater. It was warm, but there was a chilly breeze and she'd prefer not to feel even the slightest bit cold.

Jenny was going to explore outside. She didn't plan on wandering too far or off where she couldn't find her way back because she didn't particularly _want_ Jethro to have a coronary, but she did want to enjoy the peace.

It was uncomfortable to shimmy jeans on over the bandage and her injury, which was why she'd been forgoing pants so far, but she managed with minimal cursing. She hadn't had any pain medicine yet today; she usually took them just before bed so any unexpected pain wouldn't wake her up in the middle of the night.

When dressed, Jenny crept over to the large window in the living room to make sure Jethro had disappeared on the dirt path and smiled to herself, waltzing (as best as she could) out into the front and off the steps into the earth and grass.

It was so different to be surrounded by living plants and moist ground, when she'd been so used to the ice and barren trees of Russia, and before that the crowded city in Paris. Positano had been but a brief and welcome respite, as this was. She found it slightly disconcerting that one of them had to be injured to get a break.

The warmth in the breeze felt good on her face and she looked up at the sky, squinting in the bright sunlight. She might have welcomed sunburn, but that would be difficult to explain when they returned to St. Petersburg.

There was so much land, and so little habitation.

Plenty of room for exploring.

And thinking.

Jenny Shepard had a lot to think about.

She was grateful for this chance to step away from the edge the undercover missions had them skating, and she was thankful for an opportunity to shake off some of the depression that had been crawling around her mind since they started in Russia.

The mission they were handed spoke of so much subterfuge and risk, of grayer than grey morality and questionable legality. Jethro had made the offhand comment that it was odd for them to send her on something of this magnitude because she was relatively new, when it came to covert ops.

She hadn't responded, and she knew he thought it had pissed her off. That wasn't it, though; she couldn't answer him properly. What he'd said had ignited her thought process: she'd had a personal conversation with the SecNav already, in the presence of Tom Morrow, and Jethro, a senior agent, thought they were moving her along fast—and she knew it wasn't due to special treatment from him. Facts like that wove together to give the impression that she might be given an opportunity in the near future…_the_ opportunity.

She was already involved in arms work and intelligence, and her degree was in international communications and affairs. She hadn't, of course, been set on NCIS when she graduated with that, but it hadn't been a hindrance when La Grenouille decided to rend all of her plans moot and take away the only family she had left.

La Grenouille. Rene Benoit.

She had heard whispers of his name, in Paris. She thought for a while he had been the leader of the lower ring they were watching, when she'd overheard that conversation, but Pretskaya had dispelled that notion. In the murky world of post-Cold War arms deals, the Russians reigned supreme, and yet she knew that he had to be lurking.

He had to be. Rene Benoit had gotten away with an arsenal, at the expense of Jasper Shepard's honor and his life.

Jenny had been through her father's files and papers hundreds of times. She'd searched his work, talked to his colleagues and his superiors, and studied the case file on his suicide countless numbers of days. It was all spic and span, except for that one black mark of dishonorable discharge and investigation for the sale of United States weaponry to foreign organizations.

The very thought of it all almost consumed her with hatred of Rene Benoit. He had no idea what he had taken from her. Her father had been her best friend.

Jenny wandered around the house, looking at the quaint framework and weathered wood, her thoughts in the past and the present, trying to sift through knowledge and find connections.

There were precious details she'd stumbled upon in her and Jethro's in depth studies of the arms operations in the Western and Middle Eastern world. High class, expensive, right under the nose of the government operations in Egypt and Saudi Arabia were marred with Grenouille's mark.

The most curious and disturbing fact was the names of a family Jenny had stumbled across in France when chasing leads on Grenouille behind Jethro and Ducky's back.

The woman was a divorcee who owned a few summer homes in the south of France, and the three dependents, children who were schooled in America and France curiously enough, were christened Benoit.

Two of them were very young. The oldest, though, was not too much younger than Jenny. She was a medical student at Johns Hopkins. It had angered Jenny when she discovered he had a family. When she realized that there were people he loved and yet he had taken someone from her without a second thought.

She wondered if the young Miss Benoit knew what a monster her father was.

In her darkest moments, she wondered how the Frog would feel if his daughter were taken from him. If she were injured because of his actions.

Jenny internalized these feelings. She kept them hidden and protected. They were volatile and dangerous. They could drag her under if she wasn't careful.

And yet they fueled her.

She wandered into the tall, supple stalks of grass on the farm property, letting her thoughts run wild, organizing them, running over her plans in her mind and counting the years she'd originally allotted to accomplish the apex of her intended achievements.

She kept hitting a roadblock in the pathways of ambition that structured her thoughts.

A roadblock named Jethro.

When she thought of him, some of her edge softened and eased, and she thought she could let go and ignore everything Le Grenouille had done to hurt her and knock her life off track if she could just let Jethro have her.

Somewhere in her heart though, she stopped herself from recklessly letting him have that much power because she did not implicitly trust him to commit.

And she wasn't about to place herself in someone hands and lose everything again.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Jenny looked out over the terrain, taking in her surroundings like a good covert operative. The open field sprawled over a great expanse, covered in tall stalks of grass and weedy looking flowers. The property, in the distance, was fringed with trees, and the remnants of a white picket fence lined one side of the farmhouse.

She could hear wind blowing through grass, birds squawking cheerily, and grasshoppers moving around. At night, there were crickets and owls. She had never thought she'd appreciate nature as much as she did right now, when she hadn't been around such peace in a while.

The peace of the environment coaxed her to banish her darker thoughts.

She ordered herself not to spend time trying to figure out what exactly Jethro meant when he said he had 'had nothing left', because that had already kept her quietly awake for a few hours last night.

She wriggled her bare feet in the dirt and looked down as something scrambled across her foot, smiling fondly when she saw it was merely an innocent grasshopper. She may be deathly afraid of spiders, but grasshoppers didn't bother her in the least. She liked them as much as she liked caterpillars, butterflies, and ladybugs.

Stealthily, she swooped down and captured the green bug, cupping it in her hand and peering at it. It hopped inside the dome of her hand and stopped, making a noise of protest. She removed her hand slowly and admired the myriad of greens mingling to form the grasshopper's skin.

A shuffling and movement in the grass distracted her and she tilted her head curiously, standing utterly still to listen. The grasshopper in her palm hopped towards the tips of her fingers. Straining her hearing towards the shifting she heard, Jenny crouched down and released her insect prisoner.

She looked in between the stalks of grass and straightened, creeping forward to see what was moving through them. It occurred to her that she should probably be scared, but she didn't feel threatened, so she pursued.

She turned right back towards the farmhouse and pushed down some stalks. A rather large, tiger striped cat froze and looked up at her with wide, unblinking eyes, its ears falling back against its head. Jenny raised her eyebrows and slowly eased into a crouch again, her nose wrinkling.

"Hello, kitty," she greeted, reaching out with her hand.

It stared at her hand and made a low purring noise in its throat. She noticed it has a strip of leather around its neck, but there were grass bits and burrs in its coat, therefore she didn't think it was quite a domestic cat.

The cat pushed its nose against her fingers and then nuzzled her hand with its hair, stalking closer and flicking its tail around.

"Good kitty," Jenny murmured, satisfied at being accepted by the animal. It crept towards her knees and wove under her leg, meowing at her loudly. Pursing her lips, Jenny picked up the cat and stood up, fingering the leather around its neck.

When her she met with a roughened bit of leather, she looked down; squinting to read the leathering that had been marked into it.

_Little G_.

She snickered, shaking her head. It seemed Callan had befriended a lonely cat while holed up here in solitary confinement, and it was missing him.

"Wait until you meet Jethro, Little G," she said wickedly, scratching him behind the ears and snuggling him closer.

She made up her mind to try and find something to give the cat to eat, and moseyed lazily back towards the house. She concentrated on using her leg, stroking the cat's soft fur to distract her from the discomfort.

It hurt like hell, there was no denying that. Every time she used the muscles to walk normally, the pain crept up her leg and hit her all over her spine, subsiding to a dull ache and flaring up again. She was capable of handling it, but that didn't meant she had to like it.

Jenny had no inkling how long Jethro would be away. She spent the time slowly, watching the cat scamper around in the grass and memorizing everything about the farmhouse because she liked it.

She wished there were stairs for her to practice on.

She got bored after an hour.

She played with her hair.

She sang Spice Girls music.

She practiced her shot on a makeshift range; she'd marked a target on the picket fence with lipstick and decided to shoot at it. To her surprise, the shooting not at all fazed Little G the cat. He sat in the tall grass and purred loudly, tail flicking.

She was kneeling by the fence, frowning at the annoying positioning of one of her bullets. She had hit it about an inch shy of where she wanted it to go for the third time in a row, and she was starting to get pissed off. She was busy resenting Jethro for his superior shooting skills when she heard the ct scamper away through the grass and peeked over the edge of the fence toward the dirt road.

Jethro was trudging up it with paper bags up his arms. She sank back down at sat in the dust, leaning against the fence and clicking her Sig to safety as she waited for him to appear. Within a few minutes, he traipsed up to the porch and starting dumping bags carelessly down.

"Jethro, you're being watched," she told him mildly, and he paused, looking around at her slowly. She felt a flicker of triumph when she realized he hadn't noticed her there.

"Like what you see?" he asked, putting a hand on his knee and glancing at her over his shoulder.

She tilted her head and smirked, resting her wrist and her gun on her knees.

"Depends; what did you bring me?" she asked.

He sighed dramatically.

"High maintenance," he muttered darkly.

She stood slowly, her hands at her waist, and looked towards him curiously as he rummaged in the bag. She had moved forward a little when he straightened up quickly, glancing at her furtively over his shoulder again. Amused at his antics, Jenny smiled, about to question his behavior, when he turned around, holding a camera up, and snapped a picture of her.

He lowered the camera and grinned.

"A camera," he announced smugly, in answer to her earlier question.

She glared at him, approaching him with narrow eyes and snatching the offending disposable item from it. She did not quite appreciate unexpectedly having her picture taken.

"This is one of those toys _you're_ just not allowed to play with," she growled, "and I'm confiscating it."

He snorted derisively.

"Like you should be trusted with it," he grumbled.

In retaliation, Jenny held it up innocently and captured a picture of him. She grinned wickedly and he pretended to be angry with her. She sidled forward and peered over his shoulder to see the bags. He blocked her progress and moved in her line of sight. She ducked the other way and he stopped her again.

"Jethro!" she protested, whining and pursing her lips in a pout.

"Nothing interesting, Jen," he drawled quietly, "just groceries."

She leaned forward and nipped at his shoulder, rising on tiptoes a little to get a peek. He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly and she squealed as he picked her up, drawing her legs around his waist. He looked up at her with an arrogant smirk and she put her hands on his neck.

"You been on that leg all day?" he asked sternly.

"Up until a few seconds ago," she answered stubbornly, cocking an eyebrow at him. She smiled and pressed her forehead into his, tugging gently at the longer hair at the nape of his neck. She gave him a sultry look. "You'd rather have me on my back all day?" she mused, placing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"Mmmm," he muttered, tightening his grip around her. "Nothing else to do," he shrugged and she looked at him seductively, his intense cobalt eyes giving her that week-kneed feeling again. Good think he was holding her up.

She dug her good foot into his tailbone and he loosened his grip, letting her slip out of her arms. She stayed close to him when her feet touched the ground, reaching up to pull his mouth against hers firmly.

"You did miss me," he gloated huskily.

"I_ told _you going to town was a good idea," she murmured smugly.

Her world spun around and she found herself pinned against the farmhouse in the shade of the roof, her toes curling into the warm grass and her senses filled with Jethro's intoxicating bourbon-and-sawdust scent.

"You want to make love all day?" he asked in a low growl, his mouth meeting hers in short, slow kisses. His hands traveled over her arms and laced into her fingers tightly, trapping her against the house with his strong body.

"You read my mind," she managed in a strangled whisper as he pressed his hips hard into hers and dipped his sinful mouth to her collarbone.

She tilted her head to the sunny Serbian sky, biting her lip, eyes closed.

He made her head spin.

* * *

It might be considered slightly kinky that Jenny liked it when Jethro pulled her hair.

To her, it was simply an indication that he felt good.

His tight hold in her tangled mess of curls eased and he reached shakily for her, pulling her to him and wrapping his arms around her. He buried his head in her shoulder, breathing raggedly, and she turned her cheek into his temple, a self-satisfied smirk playing across her lips.

She closed her eyes contentedly as he ran a gentle hand over her leg, stroking the inside of her thigh and resting his palm against the gunshot wound that had been divested of its bandage hours ago. His movement halted there and he ran the pads of his fingers over her tenderly, breathing warmly into her shoulder as he regained control.

"That better not have hurt you, Jen," he growled hoarsely, still not sounding quite composed.

"My knees bore the brunt of this discomfort," she answered primly, kissing his throat lightly. He groaned, his shoulders shuddering. Jenny ran her hand through his shaggy hair, shifting on his lap.

He lifted his head slowly and looked at her, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders. His eyes were so dark and hazy with lust that it made her dizzy and her breath caught in her throat. One of his strong hands travelled up her throat and he brushed his fingers across her lips, parting them with his thumb.

He cupped her cheek.

"Mine," he mumbled possessively, his thumb tracing the curve of her bottom lip again, "Your mouth is mine," he said, pulling her head forward.

She responded to the kiss feverishly, the heady mix of passion and deeper-running emotion drawing a quiet moan from the back of her throat.

They had been at this for hours. It was nearing dusk; the air was settling more humid over the house, and slyly with a smirk Jenny accredited the increased heat of Serbia to herself and one Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

He brushed his lips over her jaw and neck, his hands winding into her hair again and tilting her head back.

"I love your neck," he growled, his teeth scraping gently over the pulsing skin. He drew his kisses and his mouth to her shoulder, his hands to her breasts. "Love your hair," he murmured into her shoulder, his hands tightening in it.

He bit her shoulder, harsher than usual, and she sucked in her breath at the inebriating mix of pain and pleasure that spread through her. He lifted his mouth back to her ear, his hand in her hair forcing her head close to his.

"I love that I barely have to touch you," he told her huskily. His voice did things to her she couldn't explain, even more so when it was low and seductive like this, laced with desire and wanton salacity. "I love to watch you come for me."

"Jethro," she whispered breathlessly enamored of his voice and shivering at the content of his communication.

He drew his fingers up the inside of her thighs and she moaned, tossing her head a little. His touch was much too gentle and provided a tease that made her ache.

"Please," she begged. He ignored her and she writhed in his lap, seeking satisfaction that he was withholding mischievously. "_Jethro_," she whimpered, and placed her hands on his face again. She let her head fall back when he touched her in the way she wanted.

He mumbled something incoherently about how good she looked and leaned in to kiss her arched throat, his tongue running over the artery greedily.

The faint shrill ring of a cell phone burst through the musky haze of desire clouding her senses and surroundings and she let out a bated breath, straightening up a bit.

Jethro paused, listening.

His phone rang against; she recognized the tone as his and her groan could only be classified as one of frustration and protest as she moved off of him.

Only one person had the knowledge of their numbers necessary to call them.

It was Decker, and someone had to answer.

Jenny reclined back on the couch and silently cursed Decker's unfortunate timing as she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to chase away the heat pooling in her lower stomach just until Jethro got back.

She heard Jethro greet Decker gruffly in the other room.

Jethro stalked back into the living area and stood at the end of the couch, his cell phone pressed to his ear, his eyes on Jenny. His gaze roamed over her bare skin as she lay before him exposed on the couch, her eyes closed lightly, a pink flush creeping over the bridge of her nose.

"Good news, Gibbs," Decker was saying, sounding tired and yet relieved at the same time, "Bet you could use it."

Jethro grunted, non-committal, indicating Decker should just continue.

At the moment, he could care less about the mission or National security—hell, he didn't give a damn about anything but Jenny.

Decker took a breath and sighed.

"I've been monitoring the situation since we evacuated you both, watching all of it like a hawk," he said, speaking quietly and surely, "They're calling Pretskaya a traitor. Authorities discovered his body in a shed behind the church—you're to thank for that, I assume—with the flash drive on him."

"Good," growled Jethro angrily, thinking with a flare of anger of the man who's dared injure Jenny.

He flicked his eyes up to Jenny's face and found her looking at him, one hand stretched lazily over her head. She splayed her other out over her abdomen, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth seductively.

He swallowed, and closed his eyes heavily, trying to focus on Decker.

"I had a split second's chat with Callan and managed to get him back in a blink of an eye to place some strategic evidence about the disc the two of you got—that was the first question out of our favorite criminal ring, after all. Callan's back in the states now—"

"Endgame?" Jethro interrupted curtly, opening his eyes slowly again to admire Jenny.

She smiled sinfully at him and drew her hand lower on her stomach, the tips over her fingers reaching her hip and then the inside of her thigh. Jethro's mouth went dry as he tried to listen to Decker and yet found himself distracted by what she was doing.

"We took a risk," Decker murmured hesitantly, "Callan and I. We dropped Jenny's—or, I should say, Tatiana Ivanovich, name as the rival arms dealer who'd bought the disk off Pretskaya, cementing the idea that he was a traitor."

Jethro set his jaw, his attention drawn from Jen just for a moment.

"You put a _target_ on her back," he barked, not even bothering to hide his surge of distress from Jenny or Decker.

"No," Decker corrected sharply, "We considered that. The prequel games we'd played had some benefit Jethro, and it's falling together better now. Jenny has a way in we never thought she'd get—at least, we never thought we'd get something this good. If she contacts them with something they want—after you two have thoroughly studied it—she has the upper hand and the power and—"

"Less of a risk," his anger was capped and his eyes were on Jenny again.

She looked at him intensely, her hand lingering suggestively at her thigh, tracing light circles. He swallowed hard again, gritting his teeth, suppressing a shudder. He wanted Decker off the phone immediately.

"My gauge of the situation says it's safe to come back," Decker said, "But I'm still going to give it a few days, five more days in Serbia. Use the rest of the money in your burn account to get back to St. Petersburg by any means but air—and take an abstract route. I'll scrap the account in a week and a half."

"Decker, you're sure we're golden?" Jethro growled in a lower voice than he meant to.

He moved around the couch and sat down next to Jenny slowly, resting his hand on her thigh and taking her hand. He pressed it into the cushions and leaned down to kiss her stomach, stopping her from touching herself.

"Gibbs," Decker sounded exhausted, "I've done nothing but monitor this situation since I heard what happened. I won't send you back into a trap," he said, and Jethro took pity on him. He lifted his mouth from Jenny's skin and looked at her.

"Yeah," he said firmly. "Yeah, Deck, we know."

"How is Jenny?" Decker asked tiredly.

Jethro didn't respond right away.

"She's recovering," he finally answered neutrally, and her eyes danced with mirth at the less-than-positive comment.

"Five days, Gibbs," was all Decker responded with.

Jethro snapped the phone shut forcefully and threw it to the floor.

He moved over Jenny slowly, drawing her leg up to his waist and leaning forward to kiss her, proceeding to give some truth to the assertion that she was recovering just fine.

* * *

It was well past sundown when Jenny stood just outside the wide-open, screen back door, a generous glass of Cognac grasped delicately in her hand, the sticky, humid Serbian night breeze enveloping her bare legs and shoulders.

She wore a t-shirt and panties.

She couldn't be bothered to don anything else. She could smell Jethro's chicken-and-pasta concoction from here, and she smiled as she took a slow sip of the brandy and turned back towards the house, walking languidly into the kitchen.

The alcohol on an empty stomach was going to her head more quickly than it normally would. She was as famished as Jethro at this point, an understandable state, considering their day's exploits.

He reached out an arm to her as she approached and she let him pull her into the security of his arm as he stirred the sauce he was making. She watched him, never ceasing to be amazed at how conveniently domestic he behaved sometimes.

She used to credit it to having so many wives whip him into shape, but now, knowing him better, in more ways than one, she wondered if it were something else. She hadn't the energy to feel anything other than languorous and sated; contentment was present in every fiber of her being.

She couldn't even be bothered to feel stressed or guilty about the lack of safety they'd practiced in their intimacy today, though the point of his trip to town had been for protection. They'd just forgone messing with it.

"Feel good outside?" Jethro asked, rubbing her shoulder as he leaned forward and switched off the stove, resting the spoon he was stirring with on the side of the saucepan.

She nodded, looking into her drink.

"I love heat," she murmured, thinking of Russia's despicable cold.

He kissed the crown of her head and moved away, reaching for a plate and handing her one. She took it, and rested it against her hip, turning to set her glass down somewhere. A quiet scampering caught her attention and she noticed the cat had crept into the house. It tiptoed into the kitchen and looked around, purring loudly.

Jethro turned around at the noise and his eyes narrowed as Jenny set down her plate and crouched down to greet the cat, letting it nuzzle her hand lovingly, a soft smile on her face.

"What the hell is that?"

"It is a cat, Jethro. An animal of the feline persuasion."

"You know what I meant," he muttered. "Where did it come from?"

"I found it," she answered in a murmur, lifting the cat to her arms and placing a gentle kiss to its head. "He was wandering in the grass. Little G."

Jethro snorted derisively. Figures Jenny would have named it. She set the cat down and it prowled around her legs, meowing softly. She reached for her plate again.

"Don't give me that look," she reprimanded, punching his shoulder softly. "It's carved into his collar. Callan named him."

Jenny slipped past him to help herself to dinner and Jethro glared at the intruder cat. It looked at him, blinked, and hissed half-heartedly, prancing to Jenny's feet again.

"Cats don't like me," Jethro muttered grumpily, picking up his own plate.

Jenny retreated to an empty space of counter, set her food down next to her drink, and hopped onto the counter, watching the cat as it moseyed to her and curled near her dangling feet. She smiled at it and looked over at Jethro as he eyed it suspiciously.

"Cheer up, Jethro," she coaxed. "I like you."

"Good. I wasn't sure," he answered, deadpan.

She smiled and shook her head, mixing her paste in with the chicken Jethro had grilled. They lapsed back into the silence that had fallen when he'd started cooking supper half an hour ago and enjoyed the quiet peace.

Jethro kept one eye on the cat, as if he expected it to maul someone or set something on fire.

He'd briefed her on what Decker had said while they'd both put a few articles of clothing back on, the two of them reluctant to do anything that interrupted their time wrapped up in each other. She'd learned things about him today, and was sure he had in turn learned about her. They learned more about each other through touches and looks than talking, but they'd done some of that amongst the sex as well.

Jethro abandoned his food quicker than she did, wolfing down his food and wandering over to her. He reached for her leg gently and massaged the skin around her wound while she finished up, studying it to note signs of heeling.

The skin didn't look nearly as angry and burned, nor did the hole look so gaping and unhealthy.

He knew it was still giving her trouble, but he'd learned to say nothing about it.

She set her plate down and picked up her glass of Cognac, drinking it slowly, tilting her head back and enjoying his slow working of her muscles. He paused and pressed his palm over the injury briefly.

He drew away and left the kitchen. She straightened her head curiously; he returned with the first aid kit and set it next to her. She resumed her tilted-head position and he ran antiseptic and Neosporin over the wound, cleaning it gently.

She resisted when she felt the touch of cotton and gauze against her skin, reaching for his arm and looking at him.

"Leave it," she said, shrugging. "Let it breathe."

He pushed the gauze and open first aid kit away, complying with her wish. He planted his hands on either side of her legs and leaned towards her, watching her drink languidly, as indolent as she herself was.

She licked her lips slowly and set aside her glass of Cognac, her fingers grasping delicately at his shirt as she pulled him closer, pressing her intoxicating lips against him, unable to resist the attraction.

* * *

It was difficult to say resolutely whether making love on the beach in Positano or making love in these secluded fields was more desirable to her.

Here in the grass and the earth, everything was so warm it felt as if the sun was present in everything even if the stars were out in the inky black sky and the grass looked purple in the shadows it was cast in.

Jethro had d ragged the down comforter from the bed into the field and pulled her down on it with him. She hadn't needed much convincing, and as she lay curled against him now, listening to his steady breathing and heartbeat, the crickets were a sleep-lulling background noise.

He ran his hand steadily up and down her back and she shifted her head on his shoulder, moving her leg in between his a little to achieve more comfort. He draped his arm around her shoulders and buried his lips in her hair, both of them finding words completely unnecessary.

She reached for the hand he had resting on his stomach and slipped hers into it, squeezing his fingers.

He moved his foot jerkily and she flicked her eyes down lazily, only curious a little—that is, until he started laughing. He jerked his foot again and she lifted her head slightly, her brow furrowing.

"Knock it off, Jen."

She looked at him mildly, raising her brow fractionally.

"Knock what off?"

Jethro twitched his foot again and she looked down.

"That's not me, Jethro. It's a grass ho—"

She'd barely gotten the word out when he shocked her by bolting up and jerking away from her, shaking it off of him violently. She was too surprised to say anything initially, as she looked up at him from her relaxed position, taking in the wide-eyed look on his face and his tense muscles.

She pressed her lips together and he suddenly glared at her. She couldn't help it; she started laughing quietly, a sympathetic look on her face.

"You're afraid of grasshoppers," she managed, her voice shaking a little with the effort of trying to be understanding.

"Not afraid," He growled. "I don't like 'em."

"Like I don't like spiders," she stated, nodding. He started to respond but whatever argument he might have proposed was shot when the grasshopper that had offended him leapt towards him and he scrambled back, his expression darkening.

Jenny snickered and straightened up on her arm.

Jethro picked up a rock and threw it at the grasshopper.

"Jethro!" Jenny gasped, and her sudden noise was enough to send the grasshopper bounding into the tall grass out of harm's way.

"Don't hurt it," she murmured, reaching for his arm.

He glared at her viciously, his pride wounded.

"You want spiders dead," he snapped.

"Spiders _bite_," she said simply, pulling on his arm.

She broke into a smile at the look on his face and laughed, her eyes brightening. Sweeping up the camera from the ground next to her, she captured the embarrassing—for Jethro, at any rate—moment in the flash of a shutter. The automatic flash lit up the field briefly.

She only laughed harder when he lunged for her, snatching the camera and planting on arm next to her ribs, hovering over her with a very angry look. She knew it was an act and she surrendered, pressing her palms against his chest.

He looked suspiciously like he was going to chuck the camera way, but instead he brought it to his eye and deftly took an unexpected picture of her; immortalizing the memory of her stunning smile and the satisfaction in her eyes as she lay looking up at him in the respite that Serbia gave them.

She snatched the camera from him and he slipped the hand that had held it under her, stroking her hair with the other and settling himself on top of her.

"Five more days of this," she murmured, grateful for it, infinitely looking forward to it.

His blue eyes bore into hers and he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her quickly and temptingly, his lips lingering.

"Wouldn't mind a lifetime of it," he humbled huskily.

She was not quite sure what kind of proposal was contained in that meaningful statement; it soothed the doubts that sometimes haunted her about him, and yet it scared her.

They had so much to lose.

* * *

_What I learned from writing (and editing) Chapter 5: 1)This website is out to get me and 2) I live vicariously through Jenny Shepard_


	7. the Language,the GamePlan,the Forboding

_A/N: It's an Exposition chapter. I apologize, but not really. Had to happen some time. So I tried to sprinkle in you know, fluff. _

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Leroy Jethro Gibbs shook his head slightly as he listened to Jenny attempt to correctly pronounce a Russian phrase while sounding distinctly _Russian_. Neither one of them was particularly eager for a repeat of the incident with Pretskaya, nor was it long into their arduous train journey back to St. Petersburg that Jenny hand poked Jethro awake and ordered him to coach her.

Jenny folded her arms stubbornly at the look on his face and broke off, pressing her lips together in annoyance.

"I do not understand what I'm saying wrong," she growled, glancing petulantly out the window.

Jethro couldn't quite place it either. There was just something _there_ in her inflection and tone that gave away she wasn't a native Russian speaker. He shrugged.

"Try it again," he said.

"No."

"Jen," he coaxed, rolling his eyes. She glared at him and leaned back against her seat opposite him, shooting a wary look around to make sure the patrolling Soviet wannabes weren't still around before she repeated her phrase.

Jethro listened intently, slowly starting to pick out and discern where she was going wrong. He tried not to give away that she hadn't done any better but at this point in their relationship she could read even the lines in his face like a book and broke off abruptly, glaring at him.

He laughed and leaned forward on his knees, slowly beckoning her towards him with one crooked finger. Jenny leaned forward a little; her hair tumbling down over her shoulders as her bright, green eyes met his defiantly. She was miffed that he could speak the language better than her, he knew, because she'd kicked his ass at the same thing in France.

He smirked at her, unable to resist a little gloating.

"It's your tongue," he said.

Her lips parted slightly, her brows drawing together delicately in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, resting her hands on the seat next to her thighs. He smirked again, letting her think what she would for a moment, and then slowly enlightened her to his way of thinking:

"It's something about the way you're moving your tongue," he clarified. "It's not right."

"Oh of _course_, that _must_ be it. Silly me, not moving my _tongue_ right…" she gave him a look like he was an idiot.

He returned her look calmly, until she huffed at him and blew stray strands of red hair out of her face, rolling her eyes.

"Enlighten me, then, as to in what special way I'm supposed to move my tongue," she hissed sarcastically.

"'M going to," he murmured, reaching for her head confidently. He slipped his hand in her hair and pulled her forward to the edge of her seat by the back of her neck, meeting her lips half-way and showing her strenuously exactly what she was supposed to be doing with her tongue.

He thought he deserved the smirk that crept across his face when he pulled back a little and saw her closed eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. She opened her eyes slowly and gave him an appreciative look.

"Sorry, wasn't paying attention, Jethro," she murmured innocently. "You'll have to provide additional demonstration."

He was much obliged to do so.

"Try it again," he ordered, his fingers running over the skin at the nape of her neck when he finished stealing her breath away again. She licked her lips and did so, her voice low, repeating the generic phrase he'd picked to teach her with.

She glanced into his blue eyes to gauge his reaction and smirked triumphantly when she caught him trying to look stern as if she'd failed again. The glint of amusement in his irises gave him away and she knew she'd finally succeeded.

"The versatility of your tongue astounds me," she complimented suggestively. The train hit another violent rough patch in the tracks and thrust her forward to her knees in front of Jethro. She reached out and grabbed him to steady herself, her eyes wide in surprise, trapped between his legs.

He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you could have just asked, Jen," he quipped, and she pinched his leg through his jeans, crawling up onto the seat next to him and leaning back against the dirty and blackened train windows. He relaxed back against the seat himself and reached toward her bent knees, resting his hand on one.

They were in for a long train ride—a couple, actually. Decker had ordered an obscure and secure route out of Serbia, so Jethro had forgone developing a path that followed how they'd come here from Prague. He bought tickets again on these old, broken down Soviet trains from Belgrade to Kiev, and from Kiev they would travel to Novgorod.

Novgorod, relatively near to St. Petersburg, they would traverse by car. He expected the journey to take almost three days, if they had to wait at all—and he was sure they would. The benefit was their lack of luggage, and the bonus this time was Jenny wasn't hurt.

She was wary of the trains though; he sensed that. She didn't like them, was probably scared of them, and she clearly didn't remember the state of them from their journey to Serbia due to her being in so much pain during that time.

He also knew she hadn't wanted to leave Serbia. Things had been good in Serbia; it was warm, peaceful, and the constant air of subterfuge and dangerous secrecy was absent. Even though she'd been in a foreign place with almost nothing familiar around her, he knew she had been able to relax there.

St. Petersburg was a beautiful city, old and full of history, but it was cold and had the same atmosphere of the sinister and dark that all of Russia held.

Jenny reached for his hand suddenly and laced her fingers into it, pulling it towards her and moving her fingers back and forth over his knuckles. He pressed his head into the seat and looked at her mildly.

She shifted and inched towards him, pushing her feet out towards the window instead and resting her head in his lap, snuggling close to him and his warmth. She sighed and closed her eyes, holding his hand lightly on her stomach, her thumb stroking his palm.

Jethro liked it when she cuddled up to him like so. Jenny was a comfort in ways he couldn't explain, a comfort even when he didn't feel like he needed to be comforted. He supposed it was just the knowledge that she was there.

He glanced up furtively as their car's door opened and one of the patrollers prowled through, his sharp, dark, lidded eyes looking at them with ever-present suspicion, a weapon visible at his side. Jenny tensed just slightly; keeping her eyes closed, and pressed her thumb into his palm. He didn't like the eerie soviet leftovers either; these guards were the type that you could trust more to shoot you than to save you.

"Might be a good idea to practice your Russian from here on out," he said under his breath, already sure by the way the guards had looked at them that they didn't speak English. "Draw fewer suspicions."

Americans in Russia were not commonplace, particularly recently considering the end of the Cold War and other political hostilities. Jenny scowled.

"I hate this language," she murmured.

"You hate the whole country, Jen," he reminded her gently, and she shrugged, well aware his statement was true. She did hate Russia. It was cold and foreboding. There was no other way to describe it.

"Jethro," she asked suddenly, speaking Russian as he'd requested. "Is my coat still covered in blood?"

He swallowed hard.

"No," he answered gruffly. "I got it out. It's stained, but the blood was only on the inside."

She nodded and turned towards him, slipping and arm around his waist. He rested his hands on her, one in her hair and one on her shoulder, thinking about how he'd been up half the night cleaning blood off of that leather, trying not to hurt it, desperate for something to do that first night while she slept under painkillers.

She mumbled something into his clothing but he didn't hear her. Asking her to talk in Russian probably meant he'd shut her up for the next few days, but he hadn't meant to. If she wanted to talk she could; he liked to hear her talk.

Jenny shifted again and sat up, shaking his hands off of her and drawing her legs close to her, snuggling up to his side instead. She grabbed onto his coat and yanked him towards her, smiling at his grunt of protest.

"I'm going to miss Serbia," she murmured, still in Russian. She glanced towards the lingering guard, who patrolled up the car again and then disappeared to harass other passengers, his job done for the moment.

He smirked, turning his head to look at her, lifting his brow. She smiled at him, reaching up to touch his neck lightly, her fingers curling into his longer hair, tugging playfully. He was going to miss it too. It was a break from all the subterfuge and lies they were wrapped in, relaxing even though Jenny had been hurt for the most part.

She was still hurt, even if it was better. Walking correctly still pained her even if she didn't admit it.

"The freedom…the peace…the warmth," Jenny sighed. She placed a soft kiss to his jaw and flattened her hand against his chest, inching as much closer as she could get. He liked the feel of her against him; the scent of her hair, and the familiar way she breathed. She laid her head on his shoulder, close to his neck.

"What was your favorite part?" she asked in a whisper.

He snorted sarcastically. He felt Jenny smile, pressing her mouth to his clothed shoulder this time.

"Physical therapy," he answered slowly.

"Not the grasshoppers?" she asked impishly.

"Jen," he growled. She laughed, rubbing her hand against his chest soothingly. He was beginning to wish that grasshopper had never appeared if she was going to ceaselessly mock him for it. He hated them. He couldn't help it. She didn't understand why; she hadn't been there for his hazing at Parris Island.

And he sure as hell wasn't about to divulge _that_ story.

"My favorite was all the sun," she murmured, her hand falling down his chest slowly. "Making love in the fields…this morning," she said. She hooked two fingers under his belt and he gripped her shoulder, trying to pull her off gently. She shook her head.

There were not words to describe how…perfect this morning had been. Before they threw everything together to get to the small town and then get to Belgrade in order to catch this infernal train on the way back to St. Petersburg.

"Jen," he hissed suddenly, reaching down and grabbing her hand. She shifted her head and gave him an innocent look, her brows arched seductively, yet querying.

He realized he was in considerable danger. She didn't have a book to read. She wasn't tired. She wasn't hurting nonstop anymore, and she wasn't angry with him. There was absolutely nothing to make her behave like a good girl.

She maneuvered a leg over is lap and straddled him, bending forward to kiss him slowly, her hand snaking into his hair. On reflex, his hands went straight to her legs, holding here there.

"How long until the guard makes another round?" she asked softly, her hands at his chest again, warm through the material of his clothing.

"I don't know," he hissed, glaring at her.

She clicked her tongue in mock dismay.

"Oh, then you better make it quick, Jethro," she purred in his ear, kissing his jaw and his neck, her hands slipping lower between them. He knew she took satisfaction from the low moan in the back of his throat he couldn't quite suppress.

She smirked.

"I know from personal experience you're capable of that," she said.

He took that as an insult, and grabbed the back of her neck, pressing his mouth to the base of her throat. The thought flickered in the back of his mind, as he pulled her tighter against him, that with any other woman there wasn't a chance he'd let this happen.

* * *

There was a feeling of weightless relief as Jenny stumbled tiredly into their St. Petersburg hotel suite, her leg throbbing, her feet tired, and every other part of her exhausted from the grueling travel.

As much as she hated Russia, it felt good to be back in a nice room, surrounded by civilization, where all of her possessions were. She liked the Petersburg hotel significantly less than Positano and much less than Paris, but it had a safe feel to it. Safer than the other places in this country, that is.

She collapsed in a nearby armchair as Jethro slammed the heavy suite door, kicking their two bags away from him. She groaned and tossed her head, slumping, and putting her leg up on the footrest in front of her.

The trip had gone from slightly uncomfortable to almost unbearable. It had rained and snowed, the wind had blown freezing sleet on them, and they'd had to wait for a late train in a sketchy stop for hours. Sleep had become impossible. Jenny had made a personal vow to never take a train again after this mission.

Jethro sat down on the footrest and lifted her leg into his lap, leaning forward and putting his head on her knees.

"Bed," he mumbled, just as beat as her even if he was occupying himself to pretend he wasn't.

"I don't trust your intentions, Jethro," she replied, squirming her uninjured leg away from his grasp. He held her tighter and hugged her legs shaking his head in her jeans. She smiled and turned to look longingly towards the bathroom.

"It's the middle of the day, anyway," she protested feebly. She felt it might be unwise to get off an appropriate sleeping schedule. He grunted, shrugging his shoulders.

"We have a few days to go over specifics and review our files," he muttered.

"Move," Jenny ordered, reaching down to shove his shoulders. He didn't budge and she shoved harder, smiling when he reluctantly let her push him off her legs into an unthreatening sitting position on the footrest. "I want a long, hot shower," she sighed dreamily, her eyes drifting longingly back to the bathroom.

She got up and Jethro glared at her, grumbling something under his breath. She waltzed halfway across the room, glanced over her shoulder, and rolled her eyes when she noticed him sitting there brooding.

She returned and grabbed his arm above the elbow, pulling on him insistently.

"You're coming too," she told him firmly, prepared to pretend they were saving water while they actually just wasted more with the time they'd spend.

He liked that she'd slipped back into a sort of Parisian aura of their relationship while in Serbia. He'd noticed, before the mission involving Pretskaya went south, that what they were doing drew her into herself and affected her, and there had been subtle, infuriating differences for a while that he had been reluctant to push. He didn't have to push them now, but he was wary of that demeanor coming back.

He was primarily concerned with keeping her warm. He knew how she hated being cold, and he had so much fun keeping her warm.

"Jethro, you're a God," Jenny murmured, her voice muffled in her pillow as they lay tangled in the bed sometime later near supper time, Jethro flicking casually through a room service menu.

A high compliment it was, coming from her.

He smirked, dropping the menu and rolling over towards her. He pushed her thick hair off of her neck and shoulders and kissed her. Jenny shivered and snuggled into the plentiful sheets and pillows, peeking out at him. Jethro smiled and kissed her cheek, hovering over her. She laughed at the self-satisfied look on his face and shifted in his arms a little, smirking up at him.

"Anything good to eat?" she asked.

"You know there is," he murmured, pleased with the easier access he had to her mouth. How many times had they eaten from the room service menu because Jenny had so hated going out in the arctic climate.

"Jethro," she sighed, her hand crawling under his arm and towards the nice menu. "I'm starving," she whined, turning and pressing against him to reach the menu. He took her arm and snatched it away, rolling with an exaggerated sigh onto his back and holding it on front of his face.

Jenny rolled into his side clumsily, peeking up at the menu from the crook of his arm, tracing little patterns on his bare chest with her perfectly manicured nails. She pointed to pasta and salad dishes and wine as well. Jenny loved Italian.

"Is that what you want?" he asked, rolling towards the bedside table and the phone. She nodded affirmatively in the pillow and folded her arms under her head, watching him as he picked up the phone and made the call, reading straight off the menu.

It was so annoying how flawless his Russian was.

Jenny sat up lazily and crawled over to him while he talked on the phone. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his shoulder, letting her hair fall over his skin and pressing her leg into his under the haphazard covers, laughing softly when he tried to swat her away.

He finished his conversation abruptly and turned towards her, pinning her back to the bed and kissing her mercilessly, his hands sliding down her middle and then up again, tickling her. Jenny laughed, trying to get away from him now. He used the muscles in his legs to hold her down; she could feel him smiling when he kissed her jaw and her neck.

He suddenly grasped the thin silver chain of her necklace, pausing to admire it and give her a brief respite from his assault on her. She smiled.

"When did you put this back on?" he asked, running his thumb over the delicately shaped 'J' with small flecks of emerald that served as a pendent.

"You were sleeping," she answered. He let the pendent fall back to her chest and slipped his hand up her neck. "I won't be able to wear it once we start in with these people," she murmured.

He kissed her lips again and turned, pulling her on top of him. She looked at him and the necklace dangled towards his chest, easy for him to see. He'd given it to her for Valentine's Day in Moscow, offhandedly claiming he'd come across it in a shop and pretending it was nothing. But it really was a beautiful necklace, and she loved it.

"These people," he grumbled, frowning slightly.

Jenny pushed a hand through his hair and shook her head slightly, the ends of her hair brushing his shoulder and dancing attractively.

"Let's not talk about it," she said, leaning down to brush her lips against his. "Not now. Not yet."

He wrapped his arms around her waist and acquiesced, but he knew they'd be talking about it over dinner, and when they woke up in the morning, and for the next day until Jenny had gained the first access and they really set things in motion.

_Then_ _everything will fall apart_ was his sarcastic thought.

A knock on the door some minutes later interrupted their laziness, and Jenny groped for one of the silk robes she had discarded over a chair, slipping snugly into it and walking for the door. Jethro sat up, folding his arms, and glared at the door as she opened it, daring the employee who brought the food to take an appreciative look at Jenny. They all seemed to be eyeing her, all the time. Red hair was an attractive rarity to them.

The boy did look, and Jethro glared. Jenny didn't make it easy not to, though, in her barely there silk robe. He listened to the improvement in her Russian as she briefly conversed with him and pushed the meal cart into the room, shutting and quickly locking the door.

"Sustenance," she announced, dragging a chair and the food up to the bed. She collapsed into the chair after getting her fill on a plate, curling her legs up on the bed and setting a glad of wine on the bedside table. Jethro went more slowly in picking food, first drawing some files out of the false-bottomed drawer in a bureau.

Jenny pulled a face at him and bit down hard on a piece of bread for good measure.

"Why are we always eating Pasta?" Jethro asked suddenly, looking with interest at his plate of noodles and sauce.

"Because it's our food, Jethro," Jenny simpered romantically, rolling her eyes at him good-naturedly. He shrugged and poked at his food, moving it around to cool it. Looking up, he slid Jenny's file to her, the file that contained all of her information on her target and her cover.

"The disc?" he asked.

"Still tucked in with my things from Prague," she answered, pulling her file towards her and propping it on her leg. She balanced it with her food, careful not to get it messy, for that would drive her crazy.

"Good. We've got all day tomorrow to study those bank accounts and records," he hesitated and looked up at her, leaning back against the headboard with his food in his lap and his own file next to him. "The faster we get in and get this done, the less time we have to weave a tangled web and get lost in it. And—"

"We don't want to be here longer than we have to," she finished quietly. He nodded as she swiped the words from his mouth.

"As it stands now," Jenny murmured, her eyes on the file in focus, "according to Decker, that is, this particular ring believes Pretskaya stabbed them in the back when he stole the flash drive from the Prague museum."

Of course, Jenny had stolen the flash drive, but that wasn't how it was set up to look after she'd been shot. Jethro nodded, his eyes on her instead of the file.

"Callan and Decker have been working for months to get Tatiana Ivanovich's name out there and its worked flawlessly; the fact that we have the disk gives you a way in and a certain power that makes it less dangerous, but don't let that get to your head."

"Give me a break, Jethro," she muttered, shooting him a quick glare. She knew how to tread carefully. "Tatiana Ivanovich," she murmured, her finger running over the words in the file as she accustomed herself to her cover name once again. She took a bite of her food and chewed slowly, thinking about it.

"French-Russian, highly educated, bored daughter of a weaponry manufacturer for the KGB who's gone into the underground arms business for the money and the glitz," she spoke confidently, showing how well she knew her cover. She paused to snort briefly, probably at the word 'glitz'. "Rival to the current ring we're…stalking, for lack of a better word. I am, or rather Tatiana is, sophisticated, interested in working with this ring for the common goal of elimination of capitalist values—ugh," she broke off, looking up with a face and giving a moody look to Jethro.

"Yeah," he agreed derisively. "At least you got the fancy one," he grumbled.

She chucked a piece of bread at him.

"You hate fancy, _Dmitri_," she sneered, mocking his own cover name. He laughed and threw the bread back at her; Jenny dodged it and knocked it to the floor, smirking.

"Svetlana Chenetskaya and Anatoly Zulov," Jethro said, reading their names from his file and looking back up.

"Ah, our targets."

"Zulov's former KGB turned high-priced hit man. He holds the ring together, or at least is the poster boy for it while Svetlana pulls his strings—"

"His handler," murmured Jenny, thinking of the dark words at the end of her mission file that spelled out Svetlana's fate, a fate that would be executed quite literally at Jenny's hand.

Jethro nodded, falling silent, eating. Jenny did the same for a moment, flicking through papers.

"And we're here," she murmured, "to siphon all the information we can from them. Get close, scrape them clean before they know what's happened—get the upper hand and then execute," she paused, looking up at him with suddenly unreadable eyes. "We can't leave any trace."

He slowly shook his head.

"One misstep and we're done," he said in a very quiet, heavy voice. She knew it was true, and she couldn't bad an eyelid to react.

"Why us?" she asked suddenly, her focus wavering from the file. Her question was quiet. Why them, really? Why NCIS? This was CIA stuff, this murky, questionable morality.

"John Anthony Walker," answered Jethro after a moment, his eyes on his food. "Busted in 1985 for selling encryption ciphers to the Russians. He was a Navy warrant officer, betrayed his country. No effects of that fiasco surfaced until recently. It's our mess to clean up," he paused momentarily, swallowing a mouthful. "Zulov and his ring are connected to Walker's encryption ciphers. We'll find record of them on the disc; mark my words. And because of those, even though the American Navy has long changed their codes, they have an idea of how we work, what we think, and they're targeting the Navy through their arms deals."

"Bastards," cursed Jenny promptly.

Jethro smirked and lifted his shoulder, nodding affirmatively.

Jenny returned to her file, her eyes hard, guarded. So much information; background on top of background, names to know, people to know and avoid, information that had to be memorized. This was big. It would mean the end of one of the most threatening post Cold War rings in Europe.

She lifted her eyes to Jethro and watched him looking at the file, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. She felt nervous. She knew how to do her job, she trusted her instincts, she knew her skills but this was a whole new world. And things like this…they would make or break her career.

"Jethro," she asked softly, drawing his attention to her green eyes. "What is the game plan?"

He looked at her mildly. He probably hadn't expected her to ask him for an order. Yet as independent and crucial as her part in this was, he still possessed that element of control, of being in charge.

"Information," he said, and she could hear that element in his voice. It comforted her. It was annoying when she thought about it too much. "We report to Decker, everything we find. He'll give the execution order when we have what we need. This op is a springboard for others in the Middle East and in South America. We profile. We build evidence. Watch, wait, learn. Decisions are in our hands for the most part on how to proceed and how far to go as long as not an inkling of suspicion is aroused. It is more than imperative we get out clean; the Russian government cannot be trusted to support us or prosecute illegality."

He broke off, his hand on a certain paper.

"There's a number," he said slowly, his eyes scanning information, "a string of them; the holy grail of intelligence. It is not the objective of the Op, but if we could get it," he raised his blue eyes to hers again. "It would give access to the KGB's files, all of them throughout the Cold War, as well as give us a way to crack numerical codes. Keep an eye out for that."

Jethro fell silent. Jenny stared at him, her mouth pressed closed tightly.

"Damn," she swore, smiling a little to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere. "Never heard you say so much in one go, Jethro."

He stared at her for a minute and then snorted, shifting comfortably against the headboard of the bed and shaking his head at her.

"That all you've got to say?" he mocked, lifting a brow. She handled all of the stress the mission excellently, considering it had just been thrust in her face. She didn't respond; she was too busy looking through her file. Steeling herself.

"What is your job, Jethro?" she asked softly.

"Keeping a tight leash on Svetlana," he answered coldly. "Worm in with her security, low level stuff. Gun runner."

"How?"

"Don't ask, Jen," he answered, sharp and gentle at the same time. She suppressed a shiver if dislike and nodded curtly. She didn't want to know, then, if that was how he chose to answer her. She kept her eyes on her file again, mulling it all over, thinking of the danger and the what-ifs and the buts.

"If we come to a point where we have to carry out an illegal act to gain trust," she began slowly, "or kill," she continued. "What then, Jethro?"

He looked at her bent head, waiting for her to get uncomfortable in the silence and look up at him, searching for an answer.

"We do it," he answered simply.

"All for the greater good," she said sardonically. "Save the world."

Jethro didn't say a word. They shared different opinions in that respect. Jenny didn't like taking life. She needed the adrenaline rush and the instinct to protect herself before she could fire her weapon. It bothered him. Yet he wasn't about to question her about it and start a shouting match again.

There was a lot of power in her hands. She'd be working alone, away from Jethro. Her target was Svetlana in the end because it would be unforeseen; for the same reason was Anatoly Zulov Jethro's target. She had to seduce them both, so to speak.

"If acquiring the necessary information means sleeping with the target?" she asked, grinding the words out. They left a bad taste in her mouth, the thought of such a thing with these evil, unscrupulous men.

Jethro glared at her.

"Don't think that's necessary," he growled.

"That is not what I asked," she snapped edgily.

Then they were staring at each other, green on blue, with a mixture of different emotions. She pushed aside her food, done with it, and not hungry any more anyway. She shoved her file off of her lap, taking up her glass of wine. Drinking to steady herself.

"Never mind," she spoke hoarsely. "Don't answer."

"Don't let it come to that," he answered. "You're good enough not to need to resort to that."

"And I'm good enough to get everything we need in one go if I do resort to that," she answered coolly.

He surprised her. He drew away a little. He looked hurt.

"Jen," he said quietly. It was almost pleading.

"I just want to cover the bases, Jethro."

His eyes were stony. He was angry at the very thought, the very suggestion—and yet, what one of them had not gone to that extreme before? He finished his food silently, shoving the plate away, while Jenny finished her wine just as quietly, both of them pouring over files.

He set aside his things finally and was moving around the room, peering out the window into the snow St. Petersburg streets, shutting of lights to cast the room in shadows, giving Jenny only the benefit of the lamp next to her to let her read.

She closed it, and put her hand on it. She had the facts and basis for the cover, but it was hers to cultivate ultimately. She had to play it, work it, own it. It was almost an unspoken challenge, and that alone could drive her to control it beyond expectations.

Jethro tugged the file from her hands and then the wine glass as well, taking her arm and pulling her back to the bed, reaching to dim the last light. He hugged her and buried his lips in her hair, as if he were refusing to take no as an answer to bedtime.

"When this is over," he murmured, his touch soothing against her skin, "I'll take you back to Paris, Jen."

She shifted her head and looked at him through the dark, able to see the glint of his eyes even in the consuming night. She reached for his hand and squeezed, tilting her head to kiss him, conveying her feelings for him in that one kiss, the best way they both knew how to show it.

There was a chance they could drown in this mission. It had a decidedly ominous feel, if the freshly healing bullet wound in her thigh was an omen to go by.

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_What I dediced while writing Chapter six 1) I hate this story. 2) I have a secret desire to go to Russia, even though it appears I don't. 3)These chapter titles sound like Lady Gaga songs:/_


	8. Anatoly, Svetlana, and the SecNav

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene!_

_Surprise, surprise! An update--and I warned you off expecting one, too. I must say though, a lot of the credit goes to Aly; I slacked on writing it and she happened to Beta it SUPER fast. Don't expect fluff....*at all*._

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* * *

**

The initial meet with Anatoly Zulov was flawlessly executed by Jenny. It may have been brought about in a way that had started a fight and forced Jethro to grit his teeth and put up with her baring a little more skin than he thought strictly necessary, but he couldn't complain about her smooth maneuver into the inner circle.

He had accomplished his own objective not long after. It was the working separately and alone that had the alien feel to it. He had been there as back up in the burlesque night club Jenny had lured Zulov in. Zulov, distracted by the dancers and drinks, had hardly been on the lookout for his rival in the arms business, and Jenny's play to get his attention—flashing the disc he'd lost and slipping her card into the waistband of his pants—had been brilliant.

Brilliance and success didn't mean Jethro had to like it.

She had let herself be pawed by more than a few greedy men in order to make her cover look legitimate. She had established credibility and yet a nature that said she was willing to do anything, and both were good. But he had hated it.

He hated it right now, but he could control it, because he knew just looking at her that Jenny hated it more.

She leaned against the tightly closed, gaudy French doors in Svetlana Chenetskaya's expensive St. Petersburg home, a delicate crystal glass of vodka in her hands. Svetlana herself was standing near the dining room table, her hands resting on the back of a chair. Anatoly was the only one who sat, languidly, giving an amused look to Svetlana—who had only distaste and hostility for Jenny.

Jethro kept company with the other two of Svetlana and Zulov's guards and gun runners. This was a business dinner, a strictly professional endeavor that was painstakingly vital. It was the first big play Svetlana had agreed to go forth with in joint participation with Jenny—or rather, Jenny's arms dealing persona.

Zulov had been on board from the first conversation, attracted to Jenny and the idea of her supposed connections and guile. It was Svetlana they'd had to convince; she was his handler, cool, calculating, and completely untrusting of others.

Zulov was busy enjoying his dinner, smiling charmingly, flippantly planning. He was spoiled; a cold, unfeeling rich man who benefited from Svetlana's carefully orchestrated control. It became quite clear from the unprovoked hatred Svetlana had developed towards Jenny that she and her assassin had a relationship, and a close one, if the diamond on Svetlana's finger spoke of anything.

"Think about it, Anatoly. You are not listening to a word I am saying," Svetlana remarked coldly. Her Russian was clipped and formal, enunciated beautifully; educated. "You fixate on the Americans as if they are the only enemy we have. Forget the damned Americans for the time being. They watch us too closely; it is folly to continue to try and force their hand. We must turn out attention elsewhere."

Anatoly grinned and picked up his own alcohol, shooting a glance at Jenny before replying.

"So you argue that we focus our ill will on the Israelis, my dear? On a puny, trembling nation that is already bombarded by the countries that despise it all around? Where is the sense in that, the benefit? What threat are the Israelis to us?" he questioned airily, glancing at Jenny again.

Jenny smirked. Svetlana cast a dark look over her shoulder at Jenny. She grit her teeth, and focused on Zulov again.

"Oil, Anatoly. Barrels of it. Rivers of it."

"It is not the oil industry we're concerned with, is it now?" Jenny asked mildly, lifting her vodka to her lips.

"Madame Ivanovich makes a fair point," Zulov noted, tipping his glass to her.

"It is the oil industry we'll be concerned with if the Americans turn up in charge of it—which they soon will, if their President Clinton continues to be successful in mediating Middle Eastern peace talks! You think the States will be generous in their supply of oil? The KGB may no longer be prominent in our government, but Russia is no friend to the capitalists and that will not change soon. If we strike the Israeli's while the Americans are watching us, waiting for a blatant flout of them, then we gain the high ground," Svetlana said forcefully.

Zulov set his glass down and leaned forward, running his hand over his chin thoughtfully. He turned his dark, hard brown eyes on Svetlana and narrowed his eyes, considering the explanation and the thought, his lips pursed. He glanced at Jenny and then shrugged, nodding a bit.

"I am impressed, Svetlana. Yet you never do cease to impress me."

She smiled. Jenny made a noise of discontent and looked sweetly into her glass of Vodka. Zulov glanced at her. Svetlana's knuckles whitened as she gripped her chair.

"You are not impressed with my lover, Madame?" Zulov asked archly, lifting his brows.

Jenny looked up, smiled softly, and shrugged, walking forward a little.

"A seemingly clever plan it is," she remarked provokingly, earning a sharp stare from Svetlana. "But a childish one, once the layers are stripped away. The Russian Federation has made no small matter of its support of Palestine and the Liberation Organization, thus why would America not keep a hawk's eye on us, anticipating some underhanded attempt to thwart them in their pursuits of Israeli peace? You misjudge the intelligence of the Americans and in doing so, you make a grievous error in your own judgment."

Svetlana straightened and turned to Jenny, rigid and seething.

"You would have us carry on the same tired missions of undermining American authority? Predictable and useless?" she demanded.

"To a certain extent," murmured Jenny passively.

"Then I am glad your opinion was not asked, Madame Ivanovich," Svetlana spat, glaring at the rival woman.

Jenny inclined her head, the edges of her sleek, black wig brushing her chin. She lifted the vodka to her lips and drank it slowly, giving Svetlana a cold look.

Zulov held up his hand with a feral smile.

"Tatiana, Svet," he soothed, referring to them by their given names. "This is not a time for female competition but calculation. I am inclined to agree with Svetlana's line of thought in this. For years we have tried direct flouting of the Americans to little effect. A subtler, more round-a-bout way may be in order," he paused and smirked devilishly, as if sharing a private joke with Svetlana. "Besides. Perhaps we should give the Americans a small break. It was but, when, 1996? That we screwed them out of a Cold War arsenal of weaponry, courtesy of our very good friend the Colonel."

Jethro saw Jenny stiffen, her jaw tightening and her muscles going rigid at the offhand comment Zulov made. Her eyes flashed considerably and Jethro squinted, leaning forward a little, studying her body language and trying to catch her eye.

Svetlana, too, noticed her adverse reaction and smirked, pulling out her chair slowly and sinking into it. She leaned back, resting her hand on the table.

"A toast to Rene is in order, Anatoly, think you so?" she murmured. She snapped and threw a glance at the guard next to Jethro. "Ivan. The cognac," she ordered, glancing at Jenny. "The finest French wine might settle your stomach," she remarked, "if you are too squeamish to speak of such betrayals."

Jenny's response was instantaneous and in-character.

"I prefer the sting of vodka to the lullaby of wine," she said coolly. "It was not a weak stomach but a balk at the slight of the real mastermind of the 1996 deal that repulsed me."

Zulov leaned forward with interest, taking the bottle of wine from the guard carelessly.

"We thank our American and Russian Colonel friends with sarcasm, Tatiana," he said soothingly, and smiled, pouring a glass of the cognac. "Of course the credit of such a feat is lavished upon La Grenouille."

"La Grenouille," Jenny hissed.

"You have worked with him, Madame Ivanovich?" Svetlana asked coldly.

"In passing," Jenny answered shortly. "On occasion."

"He is in business in the middle east," Svetlana said, turning to Anatoly professionally. "Should we need a contact, he would be a prime choice. "Benoit has gone soft in the past few years, disappearing, leaving his clients in Lebanon and Egypt in want of weapons. We could provide them, we could arm Hamas and Hezbollah and reap their benefits."

"And thus cripple the Israeli government and morale, weaken them, and enjoy the kickbacks from grateful Arabic countries—"

"And turn our attention to the Americans," Svetlana nodded, finishing for Anatoly smoothly.

He smiled.

"Oh, my love. Bravo," he congratulated.

Jenny shook her head minutely, drained the rest of her vodka, and set it down loudly on the table, pulling the decanter of it towards her brazenly for more.

"Forgive me if I am less than convinced," she announced silkily. "You expect to be rewarded kickbacks from the likes of Hamas and Hezbollah? Crude and unorganized terrorist groups who are in business solely for selfish, bloody means?" she scoffed, sipping her new, full glass of Vodka with sophistication. "What foolishness."

Livid, Svetlana whirled to Jenny, her Aryan ice-blue eyes flashing and her hair whipping around her neck.

"You presume to think you are in charge here, Madame, and I suggest you do not."

Jenny leaned down between Svetlana and Anatoly and looked at Anatoly through her lashes.

"What think you, Anatoly? Will you let this woman rule you?" she asked.

He waved his hand dangerously.

"Svetlana is trusted," he growled. "She does not rule me any more than you do, Tatiana. I have stated my interest in an Israeli course of action."

"And I stand my ground for an American course," Jenny growled back.

"You do not have the luxury of ruling with an iron fist in the midst of we who hardly have reason to trust you!" snarled Svetlana.

"She is in the right," said Anatoly coldly.

Jenny smirked primly.

"And neither of you have the luxury of claiming to control anything when you have recently been so careless as to allow a snip of a traitor to abscond with your most precious records and lay them in the hands of a rival," she clicked her tongue sarcastically. "Pity you could not police your own back yard."

Zulov moved too quickly, almost, for Jethro to realize what had happened before his arm was flung back and he'd smacked Jenny across the face, causing her to stumble backwards and lose her grip on the crystal glass. It shattered at her feet as she cupped her nose.

It took every single fiber of restraint in Jethro's being to sit still, not to leap up and kill the bastard right there. Jenny barely flinched. She jerked Anatoly from his chair on a reflex and shoved her knee into the back of his, dropping him to the floor and holding his hands behind his back. The cold, impersonal clicking of a gun ended the short squabble, as Jenny stood breathing harshly, and Svetlana stood with a pistol cocked on her.

"You are at the disadvantage here, Madame," said Svetlana quietly, her finger stroking the pistol's trigger.

The guards were moving forward, which meant Jethro was too, his hand at his weapon, prepared to drop Svetlana and Anatoly if this turned sour.

"I will not hesitate to break his neck before you consider pulling that trigger," Jenny threw back viciously.

Anatoly laughed softly.

"A stalemate, then, it seems," he remarked.

There was an elongated, brittle, tense moment of silence before Jenny slowly relaxed her iron grip on Anatoly and backed away.

Anatoly stood and gestured passively at Svetlana, who lowered her gun reluctantly and thrust it onto the dining room table.

"Dmitri, my good man," Anatoly said pointedly, meeting Jethro's eyes, "Call the maid to clean up this unfortunate spill."

Jethro grunted in response and slowly retreated, looking as if he was concerned for Svetlana's safety when in truth, he was loath to let Jenny out of his sight now.

The tension in the room was palpable and thick now. Jenny had been confident of Anatoly's preference for her, and he'd just proved her wrong in his support of Svetlana. It was a setback, and it made her character look weak; reckless. It infuriated her. On top of that, she'd been taken sharply off guard by the reference to LA Grenouille.

"Shall we all sit?" Anatoly offered gesturing. He resumed his seat. Slowly, Svetlana resumed hers.

"I prefer to stand," Jenny stated coldly, brushing strands of onyx black hair away from her face. She looked down at her high, tight leather boots and flicked her toe disdainfully, attempting to dispense of the vodka on it.

"I do hope we can continue this conversation like…ladies," Anatoly said silkily. He looked up at Jenny and gave her a mock apologetic look, picking up his glass of wine. "Do accept my apologies for the violence, Madame Ivanovich, he hissed. "Bitchy women sometimes boil my blood."

Jenny smiled wickedly and inclined her head.

"I do wonder how you work, then, with Madame Chenetskaya ever at your side," she said.

Anatoly Zulov smirked dangerously. Svetlana turned her head, glaring at Jenny, her posture just as threatening as her every word.

"With intelligence and beauty on both sides, I am sure we can come to a common consensus concerning our arms objective—American or Israeli…"

That was the first night Jenny Shepard cried over their mission.

* * *

She was sitting in an armchair by the fire Jethro had lit. He had returned before her, and was just getting out of the shower when she reappeared.

She still wore her leather boots and black, unbelievably tight jeans with a redder-than-wine silk blouse, and she was slowly removing the pins and clips that secured the black wig over her red hair. He watched her taking it off covertly; glad to see the long red curls again.

He threw his toothbrush haphazardly into the bathroom container, still angry that Zulov had hit Jenny, finding it hard to speak. Neither had said a word since they had reached the safety of the hotel room, and both were too stubborn to break the silence.

Until he did, that is.

"You're pushing too hard, Jen," he muttered strictly. "Back off some. What does it matter if they choose to attack Israel or America? We're on the inside; we can provide the intelligence we need to the people who will need it."

She remained silent and lay her wig down on the floor, holding the pins in her hand. Then she spoke coldly.

"We are not authorized to pretend to screw over the Israelis. That is a can of worms we can't afford to open."

"We will warn them."

She looked at him sharply.

"It doesn't work like that. We cause political discord if we run an op that affects them without reading them in. And we risk blowing our covers if we rat on a mission straight out. If we stick to American pursuits, we can orchestrate a small, simple mistake using our military that we won't be blamed for."

Jethro zipped a duffle bag shut and kicked it into the closet, scowling. He was frustrated because it never ceased to floor him how good she was it this. He'd already conceded to himself she was a pro at this subterfuge, this undercover work. He didn't like it. It was a weakness on his part; he didn't have the political, intricately analytical mind she had; he had a straightforward, marine-cultivated, clean-cut approach and it didn't mesh with espionage.

He had not taught her half of this. Some of it was instinctive in her. He had taught her investigative skills, observation, and ways to discern if you could trust people but this…questionable, sometimes dark way of thinking was hers. She could project political consequences for years and use it to make an impeccable decision. It was magnificent.

It was a little daunting, as well.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked over at her.

She looked into the fire, and then leaned forward and started to tug on the zip of her boots, her fingers fumbling against it clumsily. She paused…and burst into tears, her hair tumbling forward to hide her face.

His eyes widened and he froze, staring at her in something akin to disbelief. It wasn't like Jenny at all to just dissolve into tears, and yet here she had, without the prompting of an injury or a particularly nasty fight.

Jethro pushed the pillow he'd been holding away from him and moved away from the bed, approaching the armchair instead.

"Jenny?" he asked hesitantly, resting a hand on her shoulder. She ignored him, and he frowned. He moved around and sat down on the footrest, picking up her leg and setting it in his lap. He reached for the half-unzipped zipper and undid the rest of it, sliding her shoe off. He did the same with the other and tossed them aside, drawing his hands up her leg to clasp her knee.

He rubbed gently, trying to soothe her some. Jenny lifted her hand and shoved back her thick hair, biting her lip hard. She looked up at Jethro angrily.

"He hit me," she snarled, her voice thick with tears. "He _hit_ me, Jethro, that fucking bastard, like I was some weak woman he can just push around!"

He looked at her, his eyes drawn to the bruise that was beginning to spread across her cheek and the side of her nose, light blue and brown and tender.

"You aren't weak, Jen," he said slowly.

"I let him do it," she said fiercely, glaring at him. "I let him lay a hand on me!"

"You didn't see it coming," he retorted sharply. "You fought him back. Dropped him like a rock. That shamed him, Jen, I saw the look on his face."

"You don't know how demeaning it felt," she growled.

"I had to watch him hit you!" Jethro almost shouted, losing grasp on his control briefly. He grit his teeth and squeezed her knee in silent apology for yelling, because she had flinched. She chewed her lip shakily and looked away, lowering her head again slowly.

She was crying still, and he pressed his mouth closed tightly, reaching out to gently place his hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes and put her hand over his lightly, stroking his fingers.

His hand felt warm and soothing against her cheek, easing the annoying throb that the bruise caused every time she smiled, frowned, or moved her nose. He had the ability to separate himself from his alternate persona immediately once he was back here but she was different. She invested herself, she immersed herself, because she did a better job when she was part of it, and she achieved better when it was almost a part of her.

Anatoly's slap had been a blow to her confidence when she had just thought she had him hooked, and began to draw him away from his handler. Svetlana proved she still held him, and Svetlana hated Jenny. It was infuriating to be set back like that, in her way of thinking.

"It's all right, Jen," Jethro murmured against her ear, pulling her closer and wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

She breathed in deeply and pressed her cheek to his shoulder, drawing his hand away from her face and lacing her fingers through it. She missed his touch. They worked separately and secretly, sometimes hardly saw each other for a few days except the moments they snatched in this hotel. It was exhausting and stressful and she knew she was almost unreachable. She wanted to go back to Serbia now, if Paris was impossible. She almost wished she was still hurt, even though she hated the invalid aspect of it.

"I'm crying over that bastard," she hissed in his ear, angry at the very realization. She reached out and gripped his arm, biting her lip until she tasted blood in her mouth. He put his hand on the back of her hair and shook his head minutely, pressing his lips to her temple.

"You're crying because you're exhausted and stressed," he corrected neutrally, running his hands through her crimson hair. She relaxed at the repetitive motion and he kissed her temple again, eventually nudging her chin up and kissing her lips.

"Decker needs to be updated," she mumbled against his mouth, holding back the rest of her tears and blinking rapidly. "He'll get us back an order to proceed."

"Forget it Jen," Jethro murmured, looking at her intently. "In the morning. It's late," he let his arm slide off of her and inclined his head towards the other side of the room. "Bed," he almost ordered.

She followed his line of sight. He let go of her after a moment and stood, pulling off his t-shirt and jerking back the covers. Jenny looked at the fire and rose slowly, sneaking up behind him and slipping her arms around his waist. She kissed his bare shoulder, looking up at him meaningfully when he turned to look at her.

He didn't say a word as she reached for the button of her jeans and pushed it loose, sliding his fingers into the waist band and pushing them down her legs. She stepped out of them and he pulled her back onto the bed with him, running his hands over her back, dragging her shirt up with them.

He took his time making love to her; he wanted her to stop thinking about Anatoly Zulov and Svetlana Chenetskaya while she was allowed to, because if he didn't make her, she'd dwell and brood and it would anger and worry him in turn.

She curled up to him afterwards, breathing softly against his neck, her hand into the hair at the back of his neck. It was rare for Jenny to fall asleep that close to him, tangled up against him; she preferred to cocoon herself in blankets.

He was hard pressed to fall asleep after that. He kept hearing the sound of Zulov's hand colliding with Jen's face in his head, and picturing the shock and anger on her face. He was far removed from the mission when it came to working it and being with Jenny. She seemed to be completely tangled in it. When he was done here, he would be done, and somehow he sensed that Jenny would have a harder time extracting herself.

He turned on his side and draped his arm over her waist. Jenny shifted in her sleep and sighed, her brows knitting together and her forehead wrinkling unhappily. He kissed her forehead and hugged her closer, laying his head on the pillow next to hers, hoping she'd sleep well instead of struggling through nightmares.

He fell asleep some time later, his hand tangled possessively in her thick hair, half on his back and half on his side next to her. He didn't feel like he'd slept at all, though, when his phone woke him up buzzing obnoxiously against the clock on the bedside table. He fumbled for it, trying not to wake Jenny when he saw the inky darkness in the room; sure it was still the middle of the night.

"Dmitri," Svetlana purred quietly when he answered in Russian, wasting no time. "I have an assignment for you. Involves a particularly nasty contact I don't fancy meeting. I want you here in the next half an hour."

He answered shortly and gruffly, glancing over when he felt Jenny stir and lift her head, looking at him sleepily and in confusion. He hung up the phone after she did and thrust it back to the bedside table, shifting to look at Jen.

"I've got to go," he said gruffly.

She lifted her eyebrows tiredly, questioning him. He jerked his head towards the phone he'd thrown away.

"Svetlana. Wants me to run something," he clarified. Jenny nodded, even if her eyes narrowed and darkened. She lay back down, turning onto her back and looking at him impassively. He pushed off the covers and began to get up; Jenny tugged on his arm and kissed him goodbye, squeezing his shoulder.

She turned her back to him and pulled a pillow close to her to replace him, closing her eyes against reality once again.

"I cannot wait to waste that bitch," she said softly, and he smirked.

It did not occur to her that when the time came, she would falter; that she would be unable to do it.

* * *

Svetlana Chenetskaya had an aura of urgency; her manner of control and speaking was often desperate and frenzied, like she was viciously trying to keep a grip on her rule and her power. She was easily threatened and easily angered and that made her dangerous; she was also intelligent and quick-witted, which doubled the threat she posed.

The daughter of a Russian government official who had worked intelligence for the KGB in its power days, she was a force to be reckoned with—much more so since she'd taken it upon herself to handle Anatoly as a hit man and front for an arms ring that was probably more hers than anyone else's.

Jethro had attracted her attention by instigating a brawl with one of her original guards in a crude boxing ring. Relying on his training, he'd easily kicked the other guy's ass, and after that, subtly flirted with Svetlana and wormed his way into her good graces. The final touch had been the framing of her guard and his subsequent 'accidental' death.

The woman may love her Anatoly, and be fitfully jealous of other women, but she was easily flattered by a man's attention.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs did not hate her, because that would mean too much of an emotional involvement, but he did abhor her actions and her business. He considered her weak, despite her protests to the contrary. She was a harder egg to crack than Zulov, and he was distracting her with work, with carefully placed doubt about her missions, coaxing her to throw everything into pulling off her missions and leaving Jenny to soften Zulov for information.

He had considered Jenny's musings about sleeping with the targets briefly, but he had already pushed such a suggestion away. Out of respect for Jenny, that was something he would never do. If he wasn't involved with her, he might take that path without hesitation, but because of Jenny he wouldn't think it.

"He has the names and contact information of a select few operatives in the Middle East we need to make contact with," Svetlana said coldly, her coat drawn tight around her as she led Jethro down the dark streets of St. Petersburg.

"Weapons?"

"No, no; none of those. He's a power hungry little son of a bitch and I have no use for him beyond this information. You'll dispose of him when he hands it over. He's responsible for the death of his wife, and that does not sit well with me, for some reason. We shall simply end his life humanely, which Hamas will not do when they find out he's flipped names."

Jethro nodded curtly, his hand on the silver Russian-made gun holstered at his waist. Svetlana, as uncharacteristic as it was, became very vindictive and angry when lovers betrayed each other. He figured it had something to do with Zulov.

"Silence," shushed Svetlana.

They reached the meet place, and out of the shadows stepped a man of Arabic descent, young and brutish looking. He pulled from his coat a folder, a little worse for wear, put present all the same. Svetlana's lips twisted into a sardonic smile.

"You are a discredit to the business of secrecy," she hissed.

"I got what you requested, Madame Chenetskaya," he snarled back. "You promised me a sum of money, I believe?"

She inclined her head and, with her eyes on the young man, gestured lazily at Jethro.

"Shoot him, Dmitri."

The young man's eyes widened. Jethro raised his gun, only imagining what this man, as a Hamas operative had done, and fired his weapon, the silencer secured on the end muffling any sound.

* * *

Director of NCIS Tom Morrow solemnly offered the Secretary of the Navy a seat at the office conference table, summoning a bottle of whiskey from the liquor shelf for a night cap.

Gratefully, the SecNav gave a nod in thanks for the tumbler of alcohol and took a drink, letting out his breath appreciatively. Morrow sat down opposite his boss, clutching his own glass thoughtfully.

"The press on NCIS has been good lately," remarked the SecNav. "Congress is considering passing legislation that includes a budget increase for NCIS. No more purchasing your own ammo for the range."

"I am glad to hear it, sir," Morrow answered sincerely. "We've had an influx of probies lately to replace the increase of agents stationed in Europe, and they could use the practice."

The SecNav snorted and set down his glass, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

"Those European operations," he began slowly. "How well are we doing in them?"

"Very well," Morrow answered with a small smile. "There was barely a hitch in the Russian operation even in the wake of Agent Shepard's injury. The scant reports I had put her in the center of the arms ring, and shed progress in a favorable light."

"That woman is impressive," the SecNav said seriously. "We haven't accomplished success like this before."

Morrow nodded, smiling again, pleased that it had been his decision to start taking on more women, and his particular decision to persuade Jenny Shepard to come on board. Silence fell between the two men until the SecNav leaned back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, glancing mildly at Morrow.

"The situation in the Middle East has grown increasingly worrisome of late," he murmured casually. "With recent military and terrorist activity in a place where America is very often involved, it seems prudent to instate an NCIS Special Forces unit much like the Los Angeles one."

"Damn good idea, sir," Morrow said seriously. "The small investigative unit in Cairo could use a covert unit, as well as the office in Kuwait."

"Kuwait is stabilized currently. NCIS rarely has activity there; it's more of an army area. Cairo on the other hand is vulnerable. Israel is a concern. Our intelligence agencies must start forming ties with the Israelis, and NCIS could be the first to do it with the right," the SecNav paused. "Person."

"The Mossad," Morrow murmured.

"Precisely," the SecNav agreed.

"I'll begin contact with the Director of Mossad, and look into the Cairo office workings," Morrow said.

"Tom," the SecNav said intently. "I want you to commission a Special Forces team in the Middle East in the next few months. Integrate them with Mossad and with the terrain. It is more than necessary, we both know that," he paused briefly, and narrowed his eyes at Morrow, drawing out the silence before he said his next few words. "I want you to give Jennifer Shepard the lead position."

Tom Morrow's brows went up in surprise. He faltered, looking at the SecNav, surprised the man would advocate such a position be given to a women. He nodded all the same, but hesitated.

"Not Agent Gibbs?" he questioned. "He's the senior agent. More experience. Shepard's so young."

"Gibbs is the best damn investigator we've got," SecNav replied. "I don't want him wasting his skills fumbling through some undercover Op while murderers go free here. It's politically favorable as well, bestowing such a promotion on a woman. " He picked up his glass again and studied Morrow narrowly. "You don't have a problem with promoting a woman, do you Tom?" he queried mildly.

"Not at all," responded Tom with a shrug. "Shepard's young, and she's new, but she's damn good. She's proved that. Her reports from Gibbs are impeccable, and he's a hard man to impress." Tom broke off and smiled a little. "But with all due respect sir, I do not think it would be worth it to give Shepard the opportunity to head up the position. She is less than likely to take it."

"You don't think the woman's ambitious enough?" SecNav asked, lifting his brows.

"Oh, she's got the drive," Tom said, smirking. "Call it a gut feeling, I suppose, but I think the relationship between Agent Shepard and Agent Gibbs runs a little deeper than simply 'partners', and I do not think she would accept a position that separates them."

"Hmm," the SecNav mused. He leaned forward, determined, and shook his head. "True as that may be, I hardly think a woman like her would pass on an offer of prestige like this. And I want her to take it. "

Tom inclined his head.

"She'd do a hell of a job. Got a political mind like I haven't seen in years," he said.

SecNav nodded emphatically.

"Wait until Gibbs and Shepard execute the finale of this mission in Russia, see how it goes, and give her a moment to breathe after her first big play," SecNav suggested. He leaned back and took a drink of his whiskey, the lines of his face contemplative.

"When it's over, offer Jennifer Shepard the opportunity to head up the Special Forces team. Contrary to what you think, Tom, I have no doubt she'll jump at the chance, whether Agent Gibbs is her lover or not."

* * *

_But wait! Maybe Jenny won't take the promotion...Oh, I won't get your hopes up. Keep the word 'canon' in mind while reading:)  
What I learned while writing Chapter 7: 1) I am way to obsessed with the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. 2)I like stiletto boots. 3)'Chenetskaya' is a hard word to type.  
-Alexandra_


	9. Apologies, Orchids, and Aquamarines

_Thanks to a'serene!_

_I suppose I'll warn you...there's a deceptively fluffy start. Following that, I allowed my dark side (literally, readers) to take the keyboard and the angst is unrivalled. _

_I would like to respond to an anonymous review signed **'Confuzzled'**: You stated in your review that my story was "very AU and has been for a long time now" because "In the show, Gibbs tells Mike Franks they were trying to infiltrate a spy ring, in your story, they have already done it". Let me address that. Generally, when a line like that is heard on TV or read in a book, it is implied that success was achieved. Jenny and Gibbs would not have been able to carry out the mission if they had "tried" and failed to infiltrate. No where is it stated that they failed completely at their mission; Jenny is the only asset who failed. It is commonly accepted by the NCIS community and understood implicitly that they achieved their infiltration goal. That being said, calling m ystory AU is a bit farfetched considering it's pre-series, technically making it AU simply because we don't know what happened pre-series--unless you do, and would like to enlighten the rest of is. I hope I've cleared up some of your 'confusion', if that's what your signature was implying. Note that I have disabled the anonymous reviews to my stories, not because I cannot handle criticism, but because you have a right do express your opinion on my story, but as a the author, I have the right to respond to it, and reviewing anonymously does not allow me to do that. _

* * *

She was trying to wake up. She knew she was having a nightmare; she knew this wasn't real, but she was hard pressed to drag herself out of the throes of it. She rolled over in bed, her brow furrowing, and reached out—where was Jethro? It must be morning, if he wasn't here to wake her up.

"_Jethro_," she gasped, her eyes flying open, clenching her hand in the empty sheets next to her.

She swallowed, her lips shaking and closed her eyes again, reopening them slowly to try and wipe away the memory of the bloody dream. She took a deep breath, pulling the tangled sheets up to her shoulders and wrapping them around her warmly.

Jenny Shepard squeezed her eyes shut briefly and then let out her breath tiredly, slowly rolling over to check the time on the bedside clock.

She paused, her lips pursed, when she found her view obstructed by a bouquet of flowers. Orchids, to be exact; her favorite, tied with a purple ribbon and surrounding the edge of a card she could kind of see through the perfect arrangement.

Parting her lips in surprise, Jenny sat up, still holding the blankets around her to combat the cold, and reached towards them, lifting them gently towards her on the bed. A quick glance at the clock told her it was only a little after seven and she groaned, turning back to her flowers for comfort.

She admired them curiously and buried her nose in them, inhaling the distinct scent and allowing herself a rare smile. Delicately, she plucked the pale purple card from the midst of them and ran her nail under the flap lazily, intrigued by the gesture. She knew it was Jethro. She just had no idea why.

The card was simple; just a solid color, and when she opened it, her name was just scrawled in his hurried hand writing, revealed to her when whatever had been contained in it slipped onto her lap. Below her name, it read: 'Happy Birthday' and under that, his signature.

Jenny blinked, her forehead wrinkling. She bit down on her lip, scrambling for the date in her head. It was a sad indictment of how consuming this Op was that she forgot her own birthday. At least he hadn't, and that was a bonus for him. She picked up what had fallen onto her lap and looked at it with interest, taking her time reading the Russian script so she wouldn't misunderstand.

She lifted her eyebrows, almost suppressing a snort, because she thought it might be some joke. Tickets to the ballet? The _Nutcracker_? From _Jethro_? She pressed the elegantly printed tickets against her lips to hide a smile and closed her eyes, the mood the dream had left her in gone.

Jenny carefully placed the tickets on top of the card back on the bedside table, and gave the flowers some more appreciative gazing. She figured Jethro must have disappeared to the lobby suite downstairs in the hotel, reluctant to be around when she found his uncharacteristic gesture for her.

She considered waiting, naked, for him to return; or putting on clothing and venturing off to find him in the breakfast area. She didn't have to spend much time on the decision, because the door opened slowly and Jethro peeked in, frowning when he saw her.

"What are you doing awake?" he growled, throwing open the door and striding in with breakfast.

"Good morning to you, too," she answered with a soft laugh.

He placed the tray of breakfast assortments on the desk by the wall and came over to her, taking the flowers and replacing them on the bedside table. He leaned forward and kissed her, pushing her back into the pillows and blankets, sliding his arms around her back and pulling her close to him. She begrudged him his clothing a little, but cuddled into his embrace all the same.

"You like them?" he asked against her lips in a low voice.

She nodded, unable to hold back her smile any longer.

"The ballet, Jethro?" she murmured skeptically, shifting her head to look at him an arch an attractive eyebrow. He shrugged nonchalantly, attempting to blow off the gesture as nothing when she knew good and well it was something.

"I figured I'd get laid afterwards…" he said, and she swatted his shoulder playfully, laughing at the tease and splaying her hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer for another kiss. He ran his hand over her smooth skin and pressed his forehead against hers, nudging her cheek with his nose.

"Breakfast?" he offered, pressing his mouth to her jaw and then lower to her neck gently, drawing his tongue across her skin languidly. She shivered and wound her arms around his neck, shaking her head a little and curling her leg around his through the sheets.

She flipped him onto his back and stretched out over his chest, her knees planted on either side of his thighs. He reached delicately for the edges of the sheet wrapped around her, covering her, and she smirked, leaning forward and letting her hair brush his shoulder softly.

"Later," she murmured, kissing him slowly. He tangled his hand in her hair and drew his fingers down her spine.

"It's _your_ birthday, Jen," he remarked, resting his hand on her thigh lightly. She arched an eyebrow and smirked.

"I assure you, Jethro, I don't consider this a chore. I'll enjoy it."

He grinned, and shoved her thigh over his legs, flipping her onto her back again and crawling over top of her. She laughed and nestled her head on her arm. He was just making the treacherous tangle of sheets worse.

He kissed her neck and his mouth travelled lower, one of his hands clutching hers to press it insistently above her head with the other.

"Damn right you'll enjoy it," he growled.

Her stomach tightened at the suggestion in his voice and she tilted her head back and drew her bottom lip into her mouth, letting her eyes close with a rare smile.

* * *

Jenny curled her legs up in the desk chair with her, running one of her hands absently over her bare calf as she picked up an apple from the breakfast tray Jethro had so thoughtfully brought.

He came out of the bathroom to her left, wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind, and dropped a kiss to her mussed hair, slowly rubbing his palms over her collarbone. She tilted her head back against his chest gratefully, reveling in the sweaty warmth of his skin that bespoke of what they had been doing all morning.

He began to massage her shoulders gently and she sighed, closing her eyes a little. She relaxed into him, resolving to enjoy this day, desperate to find an escape from all the darkness and the excruciating mission.

The days were filled with arguments about schematics and technicalities, outlines for arms deals, constant vigilance, and wading through the murky world of terrorism, espionage, and betrayal. The constant stress of the mission did nothing for their personal relationship. It had gotten worse of late; in the midst of the intricate deal Jenny was immersing herself in with Svetlana and Anatoly concerning the Israelis and the Americans.

"Stop it," Jethro whispered in her ear, brushing his lips against her cheek.

"Hmmm?" she asked.

"Thinking about the Op," he clarified knowingly, and she opened her eyes, shifting her head to look at him reproachfully.

"I really hate it when you do that," she informed him.

He smirked and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her neck and breathing in deeply. She curled her legs up into her chair tighter and adjusted the short silk robe she was wearing. She nibbled at her apple and smiled to herself, content to be fawned over for the moment. He lifted his chin and placed it on her shoulder, looking at the plate of toast and fruit and a small selection of native food without interest.

His hand crept down over her shoulder and to her stomach, plucking at the tie on her robe temptingly. He pulled one of the strings slowly and the neck fell open; Jenny curved in her shoulders and shivered, whining mildly in protest.

"Jethro, it's cold," she murmured.

He frowned and paused, kissing her cheek to placate her. He released her suddenly, leaving her even more vulnerable to chills, and she swiveled around, searching for him. He crouched by the fire and went about stoking it, until the flames were full like they had been late last night when she'd returned from a meet with a contact.

She abandoned her food and clutched her robe closed, padding across the floor to the fire. He stood up and wrapped his arms around her warmly. She shivered and grasped his arms, rubbing them absently.

Jethro shook her loose suddenly and returned to the bed, yanking all the blankets, heavy comforter and all, off of it and onto the floor. He threw pillows over into the pile and then tugged her down amongst it all, leaning against the base of the armchair.

Jenny reached for his hair and threaded her fingers in it, smiling at him before she pressed her lips to his gratefully. She rested her head back against the armchair and kissed him lazily, enjoying the warmth and peace. He stroked her neck with his fingers and ran his hand through her hair.

"Ballet starts at seven," he murmured. "You want to go out before?"

She shook her head instantly, moving closer to him.

"Go out in this godforsaken ice city on a day off?" she asked distastefully. "I don't think so," she murmured, sliding her hands up his chest under the blanket. He would no doubt be pleased he wasn't saddled with taking her to dinner or something.

She simply spent so much time in the cold and ice, and in the finer parts of St. Petersburg, during the mission that she couldn't stand subjecting herself—or him—to that on her birthday.

Jethro nodded, very much okay with that. As tolerant as he was of the arctic weather, he'd much rather remain in the hotel room under the covers by a fire with Jenny than roam the fancy establishments of the Russian capitol.

"We can just stay by the fire all day," she mumbled.

"Whatever you want Jen," he answered gruffly. "It's your thirtieth birthday."

That earned him a slap to the chest. A hard one.

"I am not thirty."

"No?" he drawled playfully, knitting his brow. She glared at him, narrowing her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She smirked wickedly.

"I assume you're pretending I'm thirty so you don't feel as old?" she asked primly.

"I'm not _old_," he protested gruffly.

"And I am _not_ thirty!" she repeated insistently.

He grinned and she punched him in the shoulder, frowning in mock displeasure and folding her arms across her chest. Jethro laughed and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her forward roughly and pushing her onto her back closer to the fire. He pushed blankets out of the way and crawled over her, carefully prying her pouting arms from across her chest.

She bit her lip to keep from smiling.

"However old you are, you look damn good," he growled, and she burst out laughing, tilting her head back and squirming under him. She reached up and pushed at his shoulders, rolling her eyes.

"You know how old I am, Jethro!" she insisted.

He just nodded and swooped down on her neck, attacking her throat with his lips. He could feel the vibration of her laughter and it did wonders for his mood, knowing she was at ease for once. In Serbia, when he'd told her he had hardly seen her laugh since Positano, it had barely been an exaggeration, and since they'd returned to Russia she'd taken to banishing laugher and smiles from her emotional repertoire all together.

He hated it. She had a redhead's temper anyway, and was quick to anger, which made it difficult to keep things civil when she was in the worst of moods the majority of the time. It didn't help that lately, Decker had been pushing for information as his side of the Op was falling short; he wasn't able to get his target to break for much, and he was relying on them.

Jethro wasn't sure Decker was the type to be sent in to something like this. He was better at the technicalities and the handling, which was the majority of his job, but he was also working with Svetlana's money launderer, his eventual kill.

Jenny, conversely, was scarily good at this.

She pushed him onto his back and stretched out on top of him, both of them tangled in blankets and legs by the fire. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and brushed his, vibrant and glowing in the firelight.

He reached up and cupped her face in his hands, lacing his fingers into her hair and pulling her close to him. He felt like he deserved a pat on the back for making her happy like this, considering the last female birthday he'd celebrated had been Diane's…and _she_ had celebrated by slapping him with a court order to empty his bank account.

"Jethro," murmured Jenny in his ear, snuggling up to him. "The Russians would never _dare_ abridge the Nutcracker like the Americans do. It could be…four hours," she teased softly.

Jethro bit back a groan of annoyance and pulled her under him instead, reminding himself silently why exactly he wanted to go back to the good old USA.

Lazy was possibly the only word in the English language to describe the day they took for themselves in honor of her birthday. Languid, peaceful, laid back—they came close, but lazy was the chosen favorite.

The bed forgone, they spent their time on the floor by the fire, ignoring the time and the noise of busy people in the hallways and upper floors of the hotel, content to relish the strength of the warm fire and the comfort of each other.

Jenny, exhausted from the mission and from nights that she barely slept through, fell asleep after lunch, snuggled in the blankets by the fire, her chest rising and falling softly. He let her sleep, anxious for her to actually get some rest because he knew she didn't most nights. He was reluctant to bring it up lest he have his head bitten off.

He woke her up two hours before the show, slipping the covers slowly down her back and pressing kisses to her shoulder and down her spine until she opened her eyes and laughed, turning away from the tickling and looking exponentially refreshed.

"Shower?" he offered in a low voice, and she lifted her eyebrows, nodding slowly.

He made love to her up against the shower wall, slow and drawn out in the hot water and steam and lavender-scented soap. She clung to him, arching her back and closing her eyes, his name tumbling from her lips like a prayer.

He narrowly avoided slipping and slumped against the wall, letting her lean on him for support, absently tangling his hand into her thick, water-matted red hair.

The blush-red color of her skin may have been a sign the water was much too hot, and yet he didn't think he could get it hot enough for Jenny, not when she was so damn cold all the time. She didn't say a thing about it, barely letting her skin refrain from touching his the entire shower.

He didn't leave her much time to get ready due to the length of the shower, and that left him even less time as he'd have to wait for her. He shouldn't have worried, though. She waltzed out of the bathroom while he was fumbling with his tie and he lost his grip on it, pulling it into a knot, his mouth gone dry.

All it took was an emerald green dress that _half_-heartedly reached _half_-way down her thighs, gathered tight around her slim waist, exposing her fair shoulders, her make-up not heavy but barely visible; all it took was the green stilettos she'd once worn with lingerie in Paris, the diamonds he'd given her in Positano, the necklace he'd given her for Valentine's day at her throat, and the coat he'd bought her slung over her arm. And that hair. God, that hair.

That was all it took to turn his head with desire.

She smirked softly and set her coat down on the desk next to them, reaching with her small hands to his neck to make good of the tie he'd mangled in his admiration of her. He swallowed hard as her slim fingers brushed his neck and reached forward, running his hand along the column of her neck possessively.

"Nymphomaniac," she murmured playfully, arching a brow without looking at him.

He glared and pulled a curled strand of hair gently. She smoothed his tie out and brushed his shoulders, tilting her head to admire. She smiled approvingly.

"What did you call me, Jen?" he growled.

She twirled away from him and swept up her coat, slipping into it fluidly and laughing quietly.

"Get a dictionary," she ordered teasingly.

He rolled his eyes, grinned, and stalked after her, determined to commit the ultimate crime of a Chauvinist and refuse to let her open a door herself all night.

* * *

He did not care if it was the Russian, authentic, world-famous, elegant production of Tchaikovsky's the _Nutcracker, _Leroy Jethro Gibbs still hated the ballet when it was over late that night.

He had no appreciation for it. It bored him. Jenny was the complete opposite. She had hardly moved through the entire performance, her bright eyes fixed on the stage and the stoic performers. His only clue that she was more than enjoying his gift to her was the kiss she'd laid on him at intermission that had earned quite a few displeased stares.

His favorite part of the ballet, in other words.

Other than the end.

Now, Jenny's heels clicked softly against the pavement, the sound muffled slightly by the thin layer of powdery snow that dusted the streets and sidewalks. It was still falling steadily, coating everything, peppering her hair with snow and dampening it. She didn't seem annoyed for once.

His eyes were on their surroundings, watching other people and other places, alert and careful as was instinctive to him. The city was cloaked in starry darkness, and there was not much activity night, yet he still made a point to be on his toes.

She was silent next to him; her hands nestled protectively in the velvet lined pockets of her leather coat, allowing him the rare privilege of draping his arm across her shoulders as they walked.

"North star," she murmured, tilting her head forward suddenly. He looked, narrowing his eyes until he found the brightest, largest star in the sky and looked for a moment, his eyes drifting to gauge the distance between where they were now and the hotel. It wasn't far anymore. They had passed the German Embassy a while back, the most recent addition to St. Isaac's square, and approached the cathedral. Their hotel was very close to the cathedral.

She took his arm and stopped him though, checking the streets and tugging him to the opposite side of where they needed to be, her heels kicking up snow as she hurried to the other side of the square.

She came to a stop before a magnificent building, blinking up at up, her lips pursed.

"God, it's beautiful at night," she said softly.

He looked up at the building, the Mariinsky Palace, one they saw across the street from their window every day. It looked different at night.

"Dark," she said suddenly.

He nodded. It was beautiful in a threatening way. He knew she loved the palace, even if he didn't understand why. She said there was a touch of romance in European relics of aristocracy, but that was just Jen being…Jen.

Jethro glanced up at the street light and moved closer to her, taking her shoulders and kissing the side of her head, ignoring the palace.

"Cold?" he murmured considerately.

She shook her head a little, thoughtful.

Jethro reached into his coat pocket, pushing his gloves out of the way and hooking the drawstring of a small woven bag around his finger, pulling it out.

"Got somethin' for you," he whispered, and she pulled back a little, turning her head to look at him. She pursed her lips, furrowed her brow, and opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand, revealing the bag, and she paused, looking at it.

Jenny shook her hair back and reached for it; placing the bag in her palm and pressing her lips back together as she examined the embroidered material, her fingers running over the intricate design of a blue flower.

Wordlessly, she coaxed open the drawstring and shook the contents into her palm, flattening her hand to look at it in the street.

"Happy Birthday, Jen," he said gruffly, watching her stare at the bracelet.

She moved her thumb over the stones, all cut differently, smooth rocks of Aquamarine—her birthstone—punctured by chips of jade, hand crafted and delicate. He must have gotten it at one of the local shops.

She bit her lip and looked up at him, the stones warm in her hand from being in his pocket.

"Why?" she questioned.

He lifted an eyebrow, taken aback. She quirked her mouth up a little, realizing what she'd asked had sounded odd, and glanced back down at the bracelet, her eyes sparkling.

"I just mean," she said quietly. "The flowers, the ballet…Jethro," she murmured, words failing her. She looked up at him, her eyes on his hard for a moment, and intense. "I love you."

He removed his hand from his pocket and pressed it against the side of her head, pulling her forehead to him and pressing his lips against it. He closed his eyes and turned his head a little, letting his mouth linger.

"Yeah. Yeah, Jen. I love you." He answered.

She closed the bracelet in her fist and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding them at his throat. She should feel like she always did when he told her he loved her—the catch in her throat, warmth all over, rush in her head—but she didn't. She felt sick. She closed her eyes and leaned into him.

The screech of her phone froze the atmosphere between them.

If only because both of them knew it wasn't Decker calling.

She swallowed hard, almost stumbling back, her hand shaking a little as she reached into her pocket, fumbling to quiet the loud, uncouth noise and bring them back to silence.

"Ignore it," he said, but she shook her head, her eyes flashing.

"It's him," she said levelly, and flicked the phone open with a nail.

"_Govorit," _she ordered silkily into the mouthpiece.

And suddenly, he had his arms around Tatiana Ivanovich.

She melted effortlessly into her alternate persona; even the lines in her jaw hardening as she carried on her conversation in the native, clipped Russian he'd helped her cultivate.

He tried to ignore his anger as he watched her, and he wished she'd just ignored the damn phone call when it was over and she turned to him, her mind made up and written in her eyes.

"I have to go."

* * *

"Madame Ivanovich."

The servant who opened the door to Jenny avoided her eyes nervously as he let her in. She pushed past him arrogantly, slipping her leather gloves off and handing him to them carelessly. _All part of the act_, she reminded herself, ignoring the instinctive urge to feel sorry for the man and stalking confidently through the rooms of Anatoly Zulov's gaudy home to the cold study he kept.

"Not the study tonight, my dear."

She refrained from jumping as he fluidly appeared behind her in the study doorway, his breath on her neck. She turned, her face a mask, the edges of her black hair brushing her chin as she moved. Anatoly gave her a lopsided, brutal smile; his trademark, and moved away, gesturing instead to a sitting room that looked out over a dark landscape.

"The sitting room. Much more relaxing, wouldn't you agree?"

"Only if you are intending to offer me a drink, Anatoly," she answered coldly, removing her coat and placing it over a chair as she looked around the room. There was a fire low in the hearth, flickering ominously, and the only lighting was provided by a few dim lamps. A tumbler of scotch, not Vodka, was on the table, and a few thick files.

"A wine or a scotch, Madame?" offered Anatoly.

"Vodka," she answered harshly, as she always did.

"Always the purist," he laughed silkily, handing her a glass seconds later. He'd anticipated. "Sit," he ordered in her ear.

She glanced over her shoulder, gave him a condescending look, and walked to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle with her drink.

"You asked for my presence," she remarked coldly.

He nodded, resuming his seat and taking a slow sip of his scotch. He folded his hands and rested his chin on them, studying her harshly.

"Would I be right in presuming you are uninterested in, ah, foreplay?"

"In regards to the conversation you called me here to have, you are undeniably right in your presumption," she answered starkly. "Sexually…" she trailed off and inclined her head, hiding a suggestive smirk in her tumbler.

He laughed quietly.

"Ever the amuser, Tatiana," he cooed, and she looked at him impassively. It was when he called her 'Tatiana' that she knew he was favoring her, forgetting about Svetlana. It was her entire goal. Anatoly requesting her presence, alone, without his ever-present bitch of a handler, was a step that spoke of incredible success.

"I am not here to amuse you, Anatoly," she said coldly.

"That you are not," he agreed, leaning back, his tumbler in his hand. "You are here to advise me—so to speak."

She simply lifted an eyebrow stiffly.

"Svetlana has grown…let me say _greedy_...in her pursuits. She sets her eyes on the Israelis, claiming it is a diversion tactic, and yet through the Israeli's she sets her eyes on the control of oil, and the manipulation of world powers. She strives for the murder of those who displease her and the riches of black gold."

"You know my opinion of an Israeli course of action. You do not support it," Jenny said shortly.

He held up his hand, placating her.

"Ah, but you are wrong, Tatiana. Wrong indeed. I have no interest in working with the likes of Hamas—as you stated, uncouth, unorganized, and all together clumsy in their operations. They kill for irrelevant reasons—religion, what cause is that for death?—nonsense. We need not deign to involve ourselves with them; nor need we involve ourselves in the sticky business that is the oil industry."

"I see," Jenny remarked. She smirked condescendingly. "Where has your conviction been these passing weeks, Anatoly? Scared into submission by your Svet?" she challenged.

He straightened dangerously in his chair and glared at her, his knuckles whitening on his glass.

"I indulge Svetlana. I do not bow to her," he hissed, angered by the suggestion. Jenny merely inclined her head, as if asking him to prove it. "I do not mind allowing her ambitions and her trifles. She means very much to me."

"Yet you have other ideas than her," Jenny said.

"Precisely, Tatiana," he purred, leaning forward. "I have files on the American Navy, reports, things that tell me some of how they work. And I have weaponry. And for years the Russians have suffered bitterly under the capitalist criticisms and impositions of the fucking Jingoes that dominate North America…"

Mentally, Jenny recoiled at the force of the hate language. She listened to him bash her country and kept a cool demeanor, kept in character—really listened to what he was really saying. He wanted to pull off an arms deal behind Svetlana's back. Pull the wool over her eyes and yet let her have her way.

Jenny took a slow sip of her vodka, her disposition thoughtful and harsh. She slowly set her drink on the fireplace mantel and came forward, the flat boots she wore making no sound on the thick sitting room carpet. She sank down into a chair next to Anatoly's and let a slow smile creep steadily across her lips.

"You suggest we use Madame Chenetskaya's Operation as a front, a distraction, and strike at the heart of the Americans whilst they are occupied with rumors of an Israeli need for assistance?"

Anatoly smiled like a Cheshire cat and inclined his head, indicating her correctness. Jenny smirked and rested her chin on her hands, cutting her eyes at him seductively. She licked her lips and blinked, allowing him to think she was savoring the moment.

"I interest you, Tatiana?"

"You interest me, Anatoly," she answered huskily.

He smirked and leaned forward closer to her.

"Allow me to enlighten you as to your part."

"No need," she murmured flippantly. "You require my connection to the Americans."

"It is true, then? The American…they call it, I think—"

"CIA," supplied Jenny.

"That it is, the CIA. It is true they consider you their agent, a Russian turncoat?"

She flashed a smile in answer, and his eyes glowed.

"Brilliant," he hissed. He shook his head, as if hardly believing his good luck. "Feed them snippets of information of our deal with the terrorist organizations."

"Of course," Jenny agreed. She pursed her lips, tilting her head. "Though I am sure you're quite aware, Anatoly, that the CIA will push for more information."

"Keep them at arm's length."

"Perhaps we should distract them with something else. Turn their dogs' noses elsewhere," Jenny suggested silkily.

Her heart raced. She was thinking of the number, the holy grail of intelligence sabotage, that Jethro had managed. They needn't get it…but if they did. If _she_ did…

"I am listening," said Anatoly.

Jenny paused a moment, her eyes boring into his, determined to make him nervous. She waited until, imperceptibly, his eyes flicked down and he shifted his knee. She had him antsy, and opened her mouth to speak.

"If I had something to offer them, entice them with--if I set them on a track in a different direction, and they gave me more…leisure in my actions," she began. Anatoly nodded, inching closer as she lowered her voice. Jenny smirked harshly. "I know of a certain number you have in your possession, Anatoly, that the CIA would bleed for."

He remained silent. Then, slowly, he spoke:

"You speak of the access code for the KGB operations. The code…for everything."

She nodded icily.

He smiled dangerously.

"My dear Tatiana, that number has not even been shared with Svetlana. It is mine. Earned from my days as a KGB hit man," he paused and narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think you deserve it?"

"I have not asked for it," she said. "I have suggested we let the CIA catch scent of it. It will turn their heads with new planning."

"I would not dare allow the CIA to learn of it."

Jenny pressed her lips together.

"You are asking me to betray your handler, Madame Chenetskaya, who despises me no matter what. There is some gesture of faith you must provide me," she said shortly.

He nodded. He looked at her, considering. Then he began to smile.

"You intrigue me, Tatiana," he said softly. He fell silent again, and took a drink of his scotch. Then he set it on the table in front of him and turned closer to her, all business. "If you let a whisper of the number reach the CIA's ears, I will turn a blind eye."

She smirked triumphantly.

"Anatoly," she purred quietly. "You pique my interest with your beloved number," he cut her off:

"You will not see it, Tatiana, dear," he said lightly.

"No?" she raised her eyebrows sweetly, as if she doubted his conviction. She saw him falter. It was Svetlana who kept him cool and quiet. Left alone, with a woman who fascinated him who was not Svetlana, he was malleable. He liked strong women, no matter what he said.

"I do not consider you," he reached out and suddenly touched her face, his fingers brushing her lips intimately, "close enough to me."

She couldn't stop the immediate stiffening she felt at his touch, and the rigidity that enveloped her.

"You are quite right," she said stonily. "You are, in fact, too close Anatoly," she said in a sharp hiss.

He didn't move. She reached for his hands, but he cupped her chin and yanked her forward, violently, and crushed his lips against hers. She felt his teeth against her lips, hard, and dug her nails into his hand fiercely, ripping his skin and shoving him away.

She imitated every black and white American romance ever made and slapped him across the face, hard, vindictively, revenge for how he'd once publicly slapped her. His eyes were bright, his smile sardonic and amused.

She looked at him coldly, viciously.

"You take a liberty that is not yours, Zulov," she barked forcefully. She lowered her voice. "A liberty you will not receive until you feel generous enough to grace me with your mysterious number," she hissed, standing up.

Quick hands snatched her coat from a chair and loudly she called for the servant, wrenching her gloves from him. She slipped into both, ready to leave, her face a mask of anger and coolness. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his mouth, smiling lasciviously at her.

"I will enjoy working with you, Tatiana," he said silkily, and she gave him a harsh look before turning from the room and sweeping out, leaving the bastard alone in his dark study, her footsteps quick and determined as she left the house.

She was shaking as she stormed through the snowy streets and the blizzard that surrounded her. Freezing tears stung her eyes and she turned her face away from the snow, gasping. She felt sick, thinking of his lips against hers, and covered her mouth, swallowing a scream of disgust and then looking down to stare at the blood that stained her fingers, left from Anatoly Zulov biting her lip.

* * *

It was stupid and futile for her to have wasted time hoping Jethro would be asleep when she returned to the Hotel Astoria.

It was after midnight, dark and snowy and she had barely sad a word to him after marching back to the room, dressing in her wig and Tatiana's attire, and left him. As always, the primary thing she did when she returned, after locking their door tight, was rip off her wig and take a deep breath.

"Jen," he said, looking up from the files he was looking over at the desk.

She licked her lips, the coppery-blood taste gone. She wondered if the bite showed.

It was warm, thankfully warm, in the hotel room. He'd kept the fire again, kept it high and comforting in the hearth. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it on the bed, reaching up to undo the neckerchief choking her.

He stood from the desk, concern and curiosity etched all over his face.

The aquamarines on her bracelet clinked softly and she held her wrist in her hand, smiling a faraway smile at the gift. She looked up to him as he approached her, stopping as she straightened and moved away from the door.

"What did Zulov want?" he asked.

She shook her head, her shoulders straightening.

"Finalize some of the plans, go over strategies, back-ups," she said, and it didn't hit her until after she'd said it that she was lying to Jethro. And she realized in the very next split second that she wasn't going to tell him the truth.

She couldn't explain why. Except that he would protest it, say it was dangerous. Say it was in too deep. And she wanted to be in that deep.

He looked at her intently, pausing, and she could see him thinking things over

"Seems odd, Jen. Calling you away late at night, without her, to speak of technicalities."

"What are you saying, Jethro?" she snapped a little tiredly.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"What are you not saying, Jen?" he responded quietly, his voice dangerous.

She set her jaw, looking at him coldly.

"It was nothing, Jethro," she said neutrally, and a little threateningly. "It was a business meeting. Anatoly simply likes the night. Cloak of darkness and that bull."

"God dammit, Jen," he swore violently, and her eyes flashed, surprised at the outburst. "You're lying to me!"

Her stomach turned. How the hell did he know? How could he sound so sure that she was lying? He looked at her like he knew, he was frustrated, it was written in his eyes. He always knew when she wasn't being truthful.

His ability to read her, to know her like that, fueled her temper.

"Careful with your accusations, Jethro," she hissed. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"What happened with him, Jen?" he demanded, stepping closer. Instead of backing down, she came forward to, rising up to her full height, determined to face him off.

"I have already answered you."

"_Bullshit_."

She grit her teeth. He reached up suddenly and touched her face, his finger brushing against her lip and making her wince. His eyes darkened and flashed and he grimaced, a muscle in his jaw tightening.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

He cursed violently under his breath. She drew back and turned away; Jethro grabbed her arm and spun her back around. She reached out and shoved him back, her fist colliding with his chest.

"You have to keep me informed, Jen!" he barked. "We're partners; we report to Decker, there aren't any secrets here!"

"There is nothing to tell you self-righteous bastard!" she shouted.

"There's a cut on your mouth!" he responded angrily, coming forward again, He reached for her face; she slapped his hand away fiercely. His eyes lit up in anger again.

"Bit my lip," she threw at him sarcastically.

"He hit you again!" Jethro burst out.

She laughed derisively.

"Not a chance, Jethro. I'd break his neck if he did it and we were alone," she said fiercely, and he couldn't deny that. He was still livid, though, and he was looking at her, searching her. He hesitated, and then grit his teeth and opened his mouth, forcing his next words out.

"He did something else to you?" he half-asked.

"He didn't do a damn thing, Jethro, let it fucking go!" she shouted, frustrated. She hadn't wanted to return to this. Of all things. She shouldn't be lying. She couldn't bring herself not to.

"You want me to let it go, Jen? Then clue me in! You are not running this operation alone!"

"You are not my boss Jethro, I don't answer to you!"

He stepped closer to her.

"You may not be a probie anymore but Jen, you answer to me and you do not hide things in high-risk missions like these!" he snarled.

Her heart jumped again, and she felt dizzy. She had a sour taste in her mouth and still felt sick from the night's events. She hated how violent their fights were now. They had always fought hard and fought well, but since they'd come to Russia it was brutal. She wanted to return to the peace of the earlier day.

"Are you losing your grip, Jenny?" he asked harshly. "Can't handle this anymore?"

"How dare you, you son of a bitch! You know damn well how capable I am!"

"Start acting like an agent then, Jen, and not Zulov's conniving little whore!"

"Get away from me Jethro," she said immediately, turning her back to him. She bolted for the bathroom, his words making her sick, and slammed the door behind her, her fingers forcing the lock shut.

Her stomach turned and she leaned forward heavily onto her palms, bending over the sink. She clumsily pushed the faucet up and turned the water on. She closed her eyes and vomited, her shoulders shaking.

She knew he hadn't meant what he said when he called her that. He'd been talking about her behavior. She took a shaky breath and threw up again, squeezing her eyes shut this time, tears spilling from under her eyes.

Jethro swore again as he stopped outside the door, seconds after she'd slammed it, slamming his hand against it and letting it fall to the doorknob. He heard her getting sick and felt drained, his anger evaporating.

He shouldn't have jumped her case; he should have let it slide. Things had been so good earlier, on the streets, and the ballet. He worked determinedly with his pocket knife and the door, desperate to get it open.

He finally heard the click, aware he'd probably demolished the lock, and opened the door, careful of hitting her. She looked up at him; her lips pressed together, and shook her hair back, exposing her pale, tear-stained face. Her hands were shaking slightly.

"Jen, I'm sorry," he said forcefully, not even thinking about it. "I'm sorry," he said again, reaching out and taking her arm gently. He reached up, ran his fingers over her lip gently, over the cut, and grit his teeth, his eyes softening.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pressing his fore arm into her neck to hold her close against his shoulder.

He stroked her hair and tried to calm her down. This Op was messing her up, and he'd made it worse. He'd made her _sick_.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, pleading.

* * *

_Things I learned while writing Chapter 8 1) I am a sadist 2)I'm a sap. 3)Listening to Katy Perry while writing apparently fosters...angst?  
-Alexandra_


	10. Always Faithful

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene! _

_I did not originally intend to write the abundance of smut; but it fit. It is a contrast. We are nearing the end of the Russian bit of this installment. Note that there's some distance between Jenny and Jethro that is not just physical. _

* * *

Mariinsky Palace was speechlessly beautiful.

She had thought so when she looked up at it in the glow of starry night, standing on the streets before it with Jethro; she had even thought so when it was cast in the bright, wintry sunlight of the day. Never had she imagined the inside to be so equally stunning but then again, she had never thought she'd spend an evening within the Palace.

And in such a sickening way, at that.

She was, for all appearances, at a Charity benefit for terminally ill children, held by high ranking government official Igor Solzenik.

Igor Solzenik was Decker's target. He was their financer, banker, and techie. Pretskaya had been one of his cronies, until his defection—death by Jethro's gun, though that little detail was unknown to anyone but herself and Jethro. Jenny had been unaware of how prominent Igor Solzenik was in Russian politics until they'd become knee deep in the mission, watching his face every day on the television, discussing public policy. He was known as a philanthropist within the city. It made Jenny sick to think none of the people who contributed to his cause knew their money was being used in sinister arms dealings. She had only recently been made aware every single charity benefit held by Igor Solzenik was for the benefit of Svetlana.

She had met Igor Solzenik once, when he had been briefed. He was cold, smooth, and didn't talk much—but he had an air of deceptive friendliness. He had a smile that could make a weaker woman swoon. The meeting with him had marked her suffocating immersion in the mission, as his annual charity benefit would set into motion the gears of the actual Operation.

It was, after all, easier to lose track of money when it came through many different venues, and charity institutions were the last looked at for criminal activity.

They were all here. Svetlana, Anatoly, Igor, herself—Jethro, somewhere, though neither of them had acknowledged the other yet—all amongst innocent, unsuspecting well-doers. Such a farce made her feel guilty and besmirched, even if she knew she wasn't one of them; she was part of the solution, and yet she felt like she was orchestrating the problem. It was stifling, and the nagging, aching feeling of it came on the heels of the stress and exhaustion she'd been balancing since she'd last seen Jethro.

Almost two weeks, was it? It was hard to remember; her recollection was vague. She had been secluded with Anatoly and occasionally Svetlana for days after the meeting with Igor, finalizing plans, making threats, orchestrating general evil. The past few days had been some of her darkest; there had been violence, unwarranted killing, and other such things. She hated the despicable dealings of her _colleagues_.

She hated how they paraded under a banner of charity now.

"I hear you are an excellent dancer, Madame Ivanovich," Anatoly said silkily in her ear, far too close. She glanced at him coolly and inclined her head very slightly at Igor Solzenik with a mocking smirk.

"Igor has been gossiping, then?" she asked mildly.

"Most flatteringly," agreed Anatoly, smiling his snaky, lazy smile.

She had opened the dancing with Igor, allowed his grimy, groping hands on her back, greedily grappling for the bare expanses of skin that her dress exposed. He was a clumsy womanizer, devoid in private of the finesse and charisma he possessed on the political stage. Jenny smirked, a derogative air to it.

Anatoly laughed.

"Ah, and Svetlana accuses him of the same improprieties I can see you fuming over now, my dear," he said, reaching out and taking a delicate crystal tumbler of vodka from her. He gestured gallantly to the marble dance floor and held out his hand. "Allow me to make it up to you?"

Jenny smiled coldly and gave his hand a disdainful look. She was walking on thin ice with Anatoly these past few days; he had become interested in her since the night he'd so violently kissed her. It meant her resolution to draw him away from Svetlana was working—to divide and conquer—but he was hard to hold off at times.

"I do not think you're lovely fiancée would approve," she sneered.

"Svetlana will hold her tongue as women do," replied Anatoly mildly, but his eyes flashed demandingly, and Jenny placed her hand in his stiffly, if reluctantly and after a poignant pause.

Jenny did not waste a passing glance on Svetlana, but focused on not allowing Anatoly to lead her to the dance floor. She placed her hands in the traditional hold firmly and gave him a lifted, skeptical eyebrow.

"Shall I trust you to do the Tango justice?" she asked condescendingly.

He simply smiled arrogantly and spun her around sharply.

Anatoly was not careful about the placement of his hands; one low on her back, where Jethro placed his hand when he just felt like touching her; one on her arm, occasionally falling to her hip. She kept her discomfort masked and performed the steps naturally.

She generally liked dancing, and yet here she found it almost like torture.

"What will you do, Anatoly," Jenny asked softly, in a dangerous voice, "if your precious Svet kicks you from her bed tonight for the dance you've engaged in with me?" she said the words quietly, in his ear, and dared him to answer as the dance ended.

He smirked and gave her a gentlemanly bow, pressing his lips to her cheek in cold thanks.

"Find my way to yours, Tatiana," he said, his very manner serpentine.

She narrowed her eyes, and returned stoically to the elegantly decorated tables to the sides of the palace ballroom, reaching for her earlier abandoned vodka and tossing most of it down her throat. The hardness of the alcohol didn't even make her wince anymore she was so accustomed to it.

For what must have been the hundredth time since she'd last spent any long amount of time with Jethro, Jenny felt like she was suffocating. She closed her eyes briefly and then straightened, her tumbler grasped tightly in her hand. She cast her eyes around the room. The first gaze she met was Svetlana's.

The blonde woman stood close to Anatoly, her hard, Aryan eyes sharp on Jenny; she had the look of someone calculating the caliber of her prey. Jenny gave her an impassive, strong glare back and slowly looked away, damned if she'd show intimidation.

She took stock of the room. Igor was occupied with his supporters in recent legislation, entertaining them and their wives effortlessly, his smile flattering and sparkly. Anatoly stood with Svetlana, held by her, probably chastised by her, silkily conversing with a contributor to the charity.

For the moment, all attention was diverted from her, and she seized the moment to slip away—to breathe.

She ascended the grandiose white marble staircase casually, her hand ghosting along the cool rock of the banister as she found her way to the open second floor rooms where coats were placed and the occasional guest disappeared to freshen up. She moseyed onto an open balcony into the frigid Russian night, looking down over the courtyard of Mariinsky Palace.

Jenny leaned forward on the cold balcony railing, her skin erupting in chills, and thanked a higher being for the absence of snow and the presence of slight warmth, if there was such a thing in St. Petersburg.

She let out a breath that it felt like she had been holding for thirteen days and she let her shoulders fall, pleading for relaxation.

The night air was cold on her back, where the wrapping of her dark violet dress exposed strips of skin down to the smooth material covering her backside, and the slight breeze was chilly on her thigh, where the angle of her position had coaxed the rather flirtatious slit in the dress to bare a significant amount of skin.

The expensive monstrosity fell in silken folds to the floor, marred only by that slit. One thin shoulder strap, gathered with a pearl-encrusted flower, held the dress up, and a slashed bit of material flaunted her chest. It was stunning, and she bore a schizophrenic love towards it. It had been bought with blood money, and she disliked everything it stood for, but god it was a beautiful dress.

Jenny bit down harshly on her lip and looked up into the black sky, a few of her curls bouncing lightly against her neck. She had forgone the short black wig and adopted thick, curled black extensions for the night, a choice that had entranced Anatoly more than Svetlana would have liked. She had half of her onyx hair pulled up in an exquisite twist, and the rest styled formally and held with spray, all of it pinned and secured tightly over the simple bun of her red hair underneath. She was tempted to shake it loose.

She felt like she was in prison. This operation had never been a walk in the park, but it was more than harrowing now; the baseness of human nature she'd been exposed to in the past few days was getting to her more than she was ready to allow.

Anatoly had eliminated men. She had seen it done, forced herself to remain aloof, yet she couldn't come to terms in private with watching someone be executed and doing nothing to stop it. She had been party to conversation about deaths in the Middle East, deaths of innocent people that the dealings of her targets had caused that she was strictly not allowed to prevent until she received the call or the order to tie off the mission.

There was so much killing, so much betrayal.

She understood now why Jethro braced himself against it, and why he detached himself. She, on the other hand, tried to find solace through psychological understanding of why they did what they did, and found herself drowning in lost faith when she failed to find justification for such soullessness in these men—and this one woman.

Jenny reached up and touched the pristine diamond earrings in her ears carefully, running the pad of her fingers over the immaculate gems. The earrings Jethro had given her in Positano. She hardly ever took them off. As she brushed a stray curl away from her face, the bracelet he'd given her a few weeks ago on her birthday knocked softly against the earrings and she reached up to hold her wrist, gently pulling it down and examining the elegant and yet natural rocks of aquamarine.

It was, in Anatoly's words, an "inelegant scrap that can be replaced by something more fitting for a lady of your stature" but she couldn't have asked for anything prettier. Oddly enough, it was one thing Svetlana had honestly admired. It seemed strange to Jenny that the fashion and couture glutton of a woman could appreciate something so 'common'.

The stones comfortingly reminded her of Jethro's caring eyes. Eyes she hadn't seen in too long; eyes she sorely missed.

A heavy hand pressed firmly against her shoulder, warming the bare skin exposed and frozen by the icy air, and she turned stiffly and gracefully, hardly expecting to find those eyes waiting for her. His name formed on her lips and she felt the rigidity in her soften and evaporate. She reached up, briefly touched his cheek, and slipped her arms around his neck at the same time he wrapped his around her waist, hugging him tightly.

Her eyes were closed for the briefest second of respite before she peered into the moonlit room behind him, where she'd wandered from to reach the balcony, and reawakened her cautious undercover senses. Still, she couldn't bring herself to draw away and instead inhaled his scent, her breathing shaky.

When she did pull back, he held his hand gently at the back of her neck, refusing to let her move far, and flicked his eyes over her desperately.

"Jen," he greeted hoarsely. "You look good."

She looked at him, her lips parted slightly. She fought off laughter and relief, consuming desire, and the unbearable urge to seize his shoulder as one to cry on. She could only say, allowing relief to show through:

"Jethro."

She knew he, of all people, saw the faint dark circles under her eyes through the makeup. He knew she hadn't been sleeping and she was paler than usual. His fingers brushed against her hip through the rich material of her dress as he bunched some of it in his hand and moved closer to her as if drawn like a moth to a light.

He pulled her head towards him forcefully by the nape of her neck and kissed her deeply, bypassing etiquette and coaxing her lips apart to explore her mouth with his tongue. Her knees almost failed her she was so starved for his kiss and she responded with pure instinct, fighting back in a lips-and-teeth kiss that almost hurt it felt so good.

She was breathless when he dragged his lips away and hugged her to his shoulder again, against his taut muscles and warm suit and skin. She had no care for any covert watcher there might be now, not when his voice in her ear was almost a groan.

"God, Jen. It's been too long. You haven't come home."

She shook her head slightly on his shoulder.

"We aren't home," she said coldly. Then: "You don't know what it's been like," her voice shook at the end and she swallowed hard.

Jethro kissed her below the ear and lowered his mouth to her shoulder, brushing the strap of the dress as he kissed her bare shoulder, too, and murmured against her skin. She lifted her head and turned towards his ear.

"Indiscriminate killing," she hissed. "It makes me sick. It's sadistic and vile."

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her hips to his, a perfect sort of comfort. She grasped his starched suit collar and held him firmly, catching his eye. He stayed close, evidently as relieved to see her as she was him. He reached up and touched her face possessively.

"Has Zulov laid a hand on you?"

She shook her head slowly, honestly. He hadn't. She was almost sure she would have snapped if he had, and there would be blood on her hands. Jethro nodded, pushing his forehead against hers bracingly. She pressed her lips to his again, aching to fell that rush and warmth he provided for her.

He was gathering silk into his hands at her lower back again, securing her body to him. She couldn't suppress her quiet moan into his lips and pressed her hands to his chest hard, fingers fumbling against the fancy buttons of his shirt.

This was a whole different kind of inability to breath, an oh-so-much better kind.

"What have you done, Jethro?" she asked quietly, meeting his eyes briefly, asking what his occupation had been since she'd last saw him. His eyes were swift and dismissive when he held her gaze and he shook his head.

"Doesn't matter," he answered her gruffly, and finally.

She smirked bitterly, helpless at holding back a flare of anger.

"It damn well matters when I'm the one who's keeping her mouth shut," she almost snarled, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Don't fight me, Jen," he said, and it was tired, pleading.

The anger dissipated at the simple request. She couldn't bring herself to. Not now.

"I don't want to know," she said, more of a statement of understanding. His answering look to her was raw, and it made her eyes sting with sympathy for whatever he had done that bothered him. She slipped away from him and walked into the shadows of the cold balcony, to a secluded place where the doors were locked tightly and carefully kept potted trees were shrouding the marble in even more darkness.

He followed her heavily and she kept her back to him, tilting her neck back a little. She bit her lip and blinked rapidly, pushing down the emotions that threatened to spill over and break her.

"I can't stand it," she swore violently, and turned around. "I miss you."

He grabbed her forearm rightly, already too close to her when she spun around into him, seeking him. His mouth hit hers harder than it had yet and she almost cried out; he shoved her back, his other hand pressing lightly against her neck, and her lower back slammed against the marble railing of the balcony—hard.

"I need you, Jethro," she breathed in his ear.

He already knew.

He pressed his body into hers, pinning her against the carved railing and trailing his hands down over her bare shoulders and her sides. Jenny closed her eyes and untucked his starched white shirt from his suit pants, insistently pulling his hips towards hers. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her up on the railing; she felt dizzy knowing a fall to the ground below would kill her and she grabbed his arms tightly. She trusted him not to let her fall.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles, and opened a few buttons on his shirt, moving her hands over his chest admiringly. He braced a hand against the railing and wrapped one tightly around her lower back, pressing his mouth to the swell of her breasts.

She wrapped her arms around him in his open shirt and immersed herself in the ever-present warmth of his skin, leaning forward into him and kissing his jaw until he took the hint and met her lips with his again, the hand he'd braced tightly against the balcony transferring to her knee.

He shook the silk aside, taking advantage of the high-cut slit to expose her thighs and trail his hand along her soft skin, brushing against the delicately thin panties that had to be worn under such fancy evening gowns. Jenny moaned and flattened her hands against his back, biting on his bottom lip encouragingly. Jethro ran his hand over her back and then wrapped his strong hand around her shoulder, pulling her off the edge of the balcony and back into him.

She felt him pressing into her back and bit her lip, reaching out to hold the railing with one hand, her knuckles turning white. His hand brushed her hip as he reached for the material of the dress, gathering it carelessly in his hands and coaxing it up. He leaned into her and kissed the fair, exposed skin of her shoulders, plunging his hand into her styled hair and tugging gently as he tangled his fingers. Jethro wrapped his arm around her hips and slipped into her; Jenny tightened her grip on the railing and drew a deep breath.

She knew she wouldn't be able to voice her pleasure, and thus she bit her lip harder with every thrust, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. He pressed his hand against inner thigh and stroked her sensitive skin; Jenny scraped her nails against the marble balcony, shivering.

"God," she moaned tasting blood on her lips. He moved his hand again and she cried out; Jethro remedied the risk of that happening again by disentangling his hand from her hair, destroying the style of it, and covering her mouth with his hand. She bit his index finger instead of her lip and he shifted, pulling her leg against his and pressing her head into his shoulder, lowering his lips to her neck. She reached down and grabbed his hand, holding it still against her thigh, and she gasped, the coil of heat and arousal in her lower stomach snapping and coursing through her.

Jethro groaned in her ear, mumbling her name against her skin, his lips trailing down her neck and to her shoulder. He held off until she was shaking and reaching the apex of her climax, and thrust into her hard, biting down on her shoulder, muttering a low curse mingled with her name as he crashed over the edge with her.

She needed a moment to breathe, winded by the intensity, yet they couldn't feasibly waist time reveling in the afterglow. They had both perhaps been absent from the gala too long. She winced when he moved away from her and straightened up after a moment, immediately feeling cold and alone again.

Jenny turned around, leaning heavily against the railing; her dress tumbled back into place, brushing against her legs, and she watched Jethro right his buttons and his zipper neatly, though he kept his eyes on hers.

Her hair was tousled and all haphazardly falling over one shoulder. There would be no fixing that. This had been irresponsible and jeopardizing, and for once she didn't give a damn about what could have happened. He had relieved a lot of stress. She looked at him now, wanting him to say something to her.

He stepped close to her and cupped her face briefly in his hands, his eyes almost apologetic at the hurried way this had happened. He wiped his thumb over her lip, rubbing away the blood, and she smirked a little at the sight of her bite marks on his finger.

"Semper fi," he mumbled under his breath, and she grabbed his hand, squeezing it warmly and reassuringly, and then catching him off guard by thrusting it away from her and bracing her arms casually behind her on the marble, her soft look wiped from her face. It irked him that she'd heard the sharp, clicking footsteps before him.

"Svetlana," she mouthed silently, and turned her head loftily towards the balcony entrance, where Svetlana Chenetskaya walked gracefully out onto the stony marble. She took a short, admiring glance at the landscape, but it was a split second before she sensed their presence and she turned.

Her eyes fell on a scene where Jenny leaned arrogantly and casually back against the railing, her hair in tell-tale disarray, and Jethro stood away from her a bit significantly, shirt half unbuttoned, longish, silver hair ruffled. It was hardly a secret what they had been doing, particularly to a woman as intelligent and intuitive as Svetlana.

She approached without a word, a manicured hand falling to her hip, angling against it as she looked them over disdainfully. She looked soft and elegant and even sweet in pale ballet pink and baby's breath blue, but Jenny knew better than be deceived.

"I am not impressed with your taste, Dmitri," she said coldly, meeting Jenny's green eyes with her unfeeling blues. Jenny looked at her defiantly; it was a blow to Svetlana to find one of her guards with a woman she vociferously hated.

She was vindictively triumphant that she and Jethro had just stolen that moment under the nose of their targets, and it probably showed in her eyes. Svetlana narrowed hers sharply.

"Igor has been looking for you. The band is threatening a waltz and he seeks a partner," she informed Jenny, pausing. "Although, I daresay, Madame Ivanovich, perhaps he should be told you have already found yourself one. He would be less than amused, I know, for I doubt a man such as Igor Solzenik would deign to fuck you in the shadow of trees."

Jenny pushed off the balcony with poise and as she turned her back on Jethro, felt him subtly brush his hand against her spine. It gave her the strength to smirk ruthlessly at Svetlana, her head held high. She ignored a flare of jealous rage when she saw the appreciative _look_ the blonde woman flicked over her shoulder at Jethro, and said in a low voice as she passed:

"Perhaps that is so, Svetlana, yet I take comfort in the fact that Igor would hardly deign to fuck _you_ at all."

She knew she had accomplished enraging the vain Svetlana with that comment, but she was loathe to leave the woman alone with Jethro after the sight of that appraising look on her icy face.

* * *

He didn't know why he hadn't bothered turning the lights on. He'd just set a fire in the hearth and flicked on the desk lamp. Perhaps it was because Decker had called the moment he'd walked into their hotel room, or perhaps it was because light just wasn't fitting right now.

"Jenny said tonight was the launch," Jethro was saying gruffly.

"Oh, they launched the Op all right," Decker replied, sounding more enthusiastic than he had the past few times Jethro had spoken to him. "Solzenik's beside himself with glee. It's going to be one of the biggest pay days they've gleaned yet, and with less blood."

Jethro snorted derisively. He had seen plenty of blood and violence, and from what Jenny had vaguely alluded to, so had she.

"This is gone on better than we imagined, Gibbs," Decker said in a low voice. "Our best hope was influencing a marginally large play and gathering the proof to sanctify an assassination _if_ it ever was traced back to us. Now we're about to thwart their American screw-over and their play on the Israelis, and I think we've got Shepard to thank for that."

"Jenny's damn good," mumbled Jethro distastefully. She was also prone to taking unnecessary risks, putting herself in danger, and hurting herself—whether emotional or physical.

"You're damn right," Decker growled. "She's smoothed over a few rough patches with the Israelis—I don't know when, but they're informed and on board; turns out they've got an agent in Hamas who can flip on the Russians and take the blame for blowing the mission which is—"

"—when we'll make our move," interrupted Jethro in a mechanical murmur. Jenny had been in contact with the Israelis? That wasn't authorized—wouldn't be condoned, even, in his early days, and yet here was Decker singing her praises for taking a misstep.

The silence indicated Decker had nodded, and then remembered he was on the phone.

"Yeah, that's it," he said abruptly. "We wait until we get an order from the Israelis, and Morrow gives us the okay, and then we're out. Things clean on your side?"

"Nothing suspicious," grunted Jethro. There had been nothing, not even a whisper, to indicate that Anatoly or Svetlana believed them to be anyone other than who they said they were. Decker nodded.

"I gotta tell you, Gibbs; these Russians have some impressive computer programs I can't wait to get back to NCIS. Tailing Solzenik around as his techie nerd is worth somethin' after all," Decker said.

Jethro grunted again, and swiveled in his chair, his hand on his gun at the soft sound he suddenly heard behind him. The hotel suite door opened and the flash of red hair he saw soothed his instincts. Jenny didn't flinch as she saw the gun he had trained on her; she shut the door, locked it, and he lowered he weapon, laying it down and listening to Decker speak.

He beckoned to her.

"You make any progress on that number we'd like to get our hands on?" Decker asked quietly.

Jenny threw her heels against the wall and sat down on Jethro's knee, swinging her legs over his lap and leaning back against the desk, her head resting on the deep mahogany wood. He placed his hand on her thigh and rubbed softly. He moved his fingers comfortingly in the slit in the dress, close to where his hand had been earlier, on the balcony.

"No," Jethro answered gruffly. "Haven't heard a thing about it. Figured pushing might set off alarm bells."

He heard the shrug in Decker's reply.

"Doesn't matter. It's just an added bonus, a cherry on top." He laughed a little, and snorted. "I'd bet you Shepard could get it if we put her on the scent," he remarked.

"Don't," Jethro said harshly. Jenny was watching him alertly, removing the seeming hundreds of little pins, clips, and adhesive that held her black wig over her red hair.

"Huh-uh, she's done quite enough," Decker laughed. He paused, and then: "Hey, are the two of you still—"

"That all, Deck?" Jethro asked sharply, interrupting the question. Decker chuckled, and gracefully took the hint.

"I'll be in touch," he said. "You got that alarm word memorized."

Jethro merely grunted in response, and hung up the phone, tossing it casually on the desk. Jenny had removed her wig and dropped it over his phone, quickly unfurling her real hair from its bun and pulling it over her shoulders, working out tangles.

"What did Will have to say?" she asked softly.

"A lot about you," Jethro answered impassively.

She didn't even half-smile. He guessed her mind was on half a dozen other things. He reached out and fingered the pearl-encrusted decal on the strap of her dress, splaying his hand over it and looking back at her. He hadn't expected to see her come back. He had gotten so used to being away from her, to only speaking on the phone every few days. It felt good to have her sprawled over him now, her weight comforting and familiar.

"Any new information?" she murmured, her eyes falling closed. She reached down for his hand and laced her fingers in it, holding it against her leg lazily.

"You've been in contact with the Israelis," Jethro said shortly, and he sounded accusing though he hadn't quite meant to.

She stiffened, as if expecting him to attack her, and opened her eyes, looking up at him defensively and challengingly.

"We couldn't leave them in the dark. It would have jeopardized political relations and blown an undercover Op wide open once it reached the media that the Americans and Israelis were suddenly on opposite sides."

"You could have been found out, Jen," he said tightly.

"I wasn't," she answered in the same manner. "We are supposed to take initiative and make decisions as we see fit to pull this off and get out clean."

"Jen," he sighed, and there was frustration in his voice.

"What, Jethro? I've done something wrong again? Something you disapprove of?" she asked sarcastically. She didn't move though, and he knew it meant she didn't want a fight. Not if she was staying so close to him, as if begging him not to take the bait. He shook his head.

"No," he muttered. "I was going to say you're a forced to be reckoned with."

"Liar," she breathed.

He shook his head again and rubbed her leg, squeezing slightly. She felt his fingers move over the bracelet and he let out a breath.

"I just don't want to lose you, Jen," he admitted tiredly, as if he didn't even notice he'd just opened himself up and exposed unprecedented vulnerability. She didn't answer right away. She pulled her hand away from her face and rested it over her stomach lightly.

Crashing thunder broke the precarious silence and her pupils contracted in surprised fear; she jumped and he reached out to prevent her from falling as she sat up jerkily, grinding her teeth together angrily.

"Goddamnit," she swore shakily.

"Thunder," he said soothingly.

"I miss the snow," she said drily, and he surprised her with a laugh. His fingers brushed against the scar on her thigh where he was rubbing, and she immediately pushed his hand away, a reaction that she'd been having lately to him touching it. He ignored the movement and reached up for the strap gracing one shoulder, bending it down over her arm.

"You won't hear the storm as much in running water," he suggested, nodding towards the bathroom.

"Mmmm," she murmured longingly, slipping off of his lap and standing gratefully. Quick showers were all she had allowed herself at Anatoly's home, disliking too much the unprotected vulnerability of being naked and defenseless in a murderer's lair.

He shut the door and locked it, a habit they had both become accustomed to—locking doors no matter where they were or what they were doing. Jenny turned the water on scalding hot and leaned back against the sink. Jethro shimmied off the silk dress as she casually pushed off his jacket and again undid the buttons of his now wrinkled shirt, sighing a little as his hands brushed gently against her skin this time.

"Nice dress," he remarked, aware of what the price had been even in his limited knowledge of couture expenses.

"Burn it," was her cold response as she kicked it away across the tile floor. She tugged a towel off of the rack and placed it on the floor before the bathtub, pushing Jethro's clothing to the side with her dress and carelessly administered some vague amount of bubble bath into the tub before she dragged Jethro in with her, splashing soap and water to the floor.

Neither bothered to turn the faucet off; she enjoyed the cascade of hot water over her shoulders as she leaned back, Jethro pressing his lips to her shoulders and the swell of her breasts, her hair being soaked to the roots.

She dropped her head back against the white porcelain and parted her lips, reaching out and gripping his shoulder. She tried to push the mission from her mind and recoiled when she found she couldn't; she blocked it instead, distracted as Jethro nudged her legs apart with his knee and pushed into her again, slow this time, and unhurried.

She bit her lip and pulled his head against hers, pressing her nose against his cheek and her forehead against his, her eyes closed tightly. She kissed him, exploring his mouth, relishing the locked door and the absence of anyone but them.

His breathing was heavy against her neck, getting harsher as the pleasure escalated, and she arched her back, pressing her palm into the back of his neck tightly and pushing against his shoulder to make him work harder when he moved. She pressed her mouth to his jaw.

"You first," she gasped, winding her leg around his and arching again, forcing herself to hold back. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth, moaning his name as she felt him shudder, his pace suddenly erratic and calculated. She let go and wrapped her leg around his waist, pulling him into her hard and shivering, her moans of release quiet.

She didn't notice him fumblingly turn off the water behind her neck, preventing a disastrous flood. He collapsed carefully on her, his hands at her waist and his head resting in the crook of her neck and shoulder. His heart beat furiously against her breath and she dug her foot in his back, asking him silently to remain.

He lifted his head after a brief moment of recuperation and kissed her slowly.

"Better, Jen?" he asked sincerely, perceptive to the dark mood she'd been in since the first moment he saw her back to him on the balcony. Her head still tilted back and her eyes still closed, she licked her lips and nodded almost imperceptibly.

She spared a thought that without men like Jethro, the world would be an undesirable place ridden with distress. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and lowered his mouth to her shoulder again, and she was aware that the thunder was just a faint whisper in the background, just attempting to harangue her.

* * *

Jenny was exhausted, or she never would have fallen asleep in the wake of the raging thunderstorm outside. Jethro, accustomed to less sleep than the average person anyway, and harboring a general distaste for it, was still awake, listening to the crash of the storm with unabashed appreciation. They didn't bother him at all, and that stemmed from the way Shannon had used to love watching them and dragging him onto the porch to get soaked in the rain.

Asleep as she might be, Jenny was shifting uncomfortably next to him. She had been doing it all night, more so than usual, and it prompted him to wonder just what she'd witnessed—or participated in—during her absence.

He knew she hated the senseless killing. Jethro, being one of Svetlana's cohorts and having been privy to some of her conversations, knew she had handled commissions for Anatoly's assassin skills, and in the past few days he had wrought a few assassinations of political enemies. Men separate from their targets and just 'side jobs' to Zulov; that was something that would have bothered Jenny to no end, particularly if she was powerless to stop it.

She could be ruthless, and ambitious, and calculatingly chill in her intelligence, but there was softness in Jenny that made her hate unfounded murder, and that was generally what Anatoly perpetrated.

She shifted onto her stomach for the third time and pushed her arms under her pillow. Jethro turned on his side and placed a hand on her back, closing his eyes to attempt to force himself to sleep and absentmindedly beginning a slow massage over her shoulders. He hadn't dreamt about Shannon or Kelly in weeks, too wrapped up in the Op, he assumed—unless it was something else, unless Jen was influencing that.

Her muscles tightened under his hand and he squeezed her shoulder gently, mumbling to her instinctively. She shivered, gasped in her sleep, and he opened his eyes, sitting up a little.

"Wake up, Jen," he said, shaking her shoulder a little. Her face was turned away from him, pressed into the pillow, but it felt like she was crying. "Jenny," he started again, reaching out with his other hand and attempting to move her onto her back. "Wake up," he ordered.

She turned slowly, shifting to her side, peeking out from behind her arm silently. She winced when she heard the constant rolling of thunder and thumping sound of rain against the window, and when lightning flashed in the room he noticed she had been crying.

He sat up and pulled the tangled covers up, taking her shoulder and pulling her gently. She leaned back against the headboard and let him pull her to him, wrapping his arms around her with his hand against her head, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. She bit her lip took a breath, sniffing softly.

"You're fine, Jen," he said simply.

"I know."

"Just a nightmare," he said.

She shook her head though, and closed her eyes; he felt her lashes flutter against his skin and her lips trembled; she bit them to steady them.

"You want the light on?" he asked after a moment. She shook her head in the negative again and he sank back, relaxing a little so maybe she would. She snuggled into him, wrapping up in the heavy sheets and breathing in slowly a few times.

"I'm scared of becoming like them," she said in a low voice. It was a sudden admission he hadn't been expected, and hadn't asked her for.

"You are nothing like these people, Jenny," he said firmly, brushing his fingers against her cheek. She looked across the room, flinching again when thunder crashed. She wet her lips and parted them.

"What if I am?" she asked ominously, hoarsely. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face into his chest again, shifting her head as if trying to shake the thoughts away. "I want to go home, Jethro."

He understood that feeling better than any other.

"We're almost done, Jen," he said gruffly.

She fell silent, and after a moment, all she said was:

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Oh, shut up, Jen," he said with an ironic laugh, smiling a little. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, flattening her palm against his chest in a silent gesture of thanks.

* * *

_What I decided while writing Chapter 9: 1) Angst is definitely my heroin. 2) I plagiarized my own story in the last half--Ch3, Medley.  
-Alexandra_


	11. Screwed

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene!_

_You're all going to hate me, and then you're all going to get over it. Eventually. I have impressed upon you my love of angst a number of times and I think I lived up to my own hype. Forgive me; no lynching, and enjoy the sadism, if you're into that:)_

_Holly: I'll go ahead and reccomend you mix those tums in with some bourbon. _

* * *

It seemed that in weeks past this mansion had become familiar to her. She loathed thinking of it as familiar, because what she found familiar she associated with comfort—and Anatoly Zulov's home was no comfort to her. It was a distinctly sinister kind of familiar.

She found herself here, again and again, more often than not in the study. It was always darkly lit. Always accentuated by a miserably glowing fire. Shadows everywhere, and then of course, Anatoly, nauseating and despicable.

She felt like she hadn't slept in days, but Jethro had woken her up to take a phone call this morning, so she knew she had at some point held onto a few precious hours of slumber. Her head never ceased aching now. She felt she was becoming numb to the constant degradation Anatoly's evil made her feel; she hated his brutality; recoiled from it. In this moment, at least, there was some vindictive, relieving speck of pleasure because they had hit a crucial point in the mission: the arms deal was being executed.

Jenny and Jethro had informed the appropriate people, set up the appropriate mishaps, and now Anatoly called Jenny to him celebrate while unbeknownst to him she waited to hear that the deal had been thwarted and she could go home and never think about this again.

He stood smoking by the fireplace, a celebratory Cuban cigar held arrogantly between two fingers and a glass of La Grenouille's vintage Cognac in his hand. He had a smile on his face to make the deads' skin crawl. She'd been suppressing shudders all night.

It was so late.

"I still wonder that your precious Svet was not invited to our celebration," she mused delicately, her voice kept cold.

Anatoly smirked.

"Ah, believe me, Tatiana, Svetlana is a vicious woman. We do not want her around when she discovers we rearranged events behind her back concerning Hamas," he said smoothly, taking a drag from his cigar.

Jenny smirked and leaned back, taking a long drink of her vodka.

She crossed one leg over the other, tall, maroon-suede boots reaching up to her knees to complement a dress of heavy grey silk. She had driven a wedge between Svetlana and Anatoly lately, earning even more of the woman's considerable hatred. She had lost her energy for goading Svetlana though; ruthless as the other woman was, she detested unnecessary violence where Anatoly reveled in it. When Svetlana commissioned him to make a kill, it was because she felt threatened, or acted on orders from a colleague.

When Anatoly killed, it was for sport.

Jenny's breath was still lost from the scene she'd witnessed this afternoon in a park: a servant who had disappointed Anatoly had received a bullet to the brain and a short kick into the river. He gave literal meaning to 'shooting the messenger' and Jenny had found it hard to conceal her rage and horror afterwards. She had been with Anatoly all day, and it was about all she could take.

Yet something was keeping her here. She had a good feeling. Not about him, or herself, but about what she could accomplish. The worst of this mission had always been her niggling feeling that she wasn't accomplishing any long-standing good, that once these people were dead the Op would be forgotten but she would still have to live with it.

The number, though. The KGB soviet code Jethro had mentioned, and Decker occasionally asked after, had been just beyond her grasp since she first mentioned her interest to Anatoly. In the past few days, she'd brushed her fingers against it; Anatoly had come so close to hinting he'd share. She had already set her sights on it. A feat like that would catapult her into recognition by the agency and give her a leg up to pick and choose assignments she wanted. The idea ignited a fire in her, pushed her to make this goddamn mission worthwhile and get something out of it for herself: achieve her ambition and succeed.

And when she mulled it over and made her plans, she barely realized that Jethro was hardly ever a part of her thoughts.

"Come now, my Tatiana," said Anatoly, darkly amused, suddenly. "We have quite the victory to celebrate, and you sit sullen with your vodka. Smile, _Cherie_."

Inwardly, she shivered at the endearment. Outwardly, she gave a cold smile and gestured her hand uncaringly.

"Forgive me, Anatoly. I cannot quite bring myself to celebrate until I hear the particulars of our success. One must not become over confident," she answered silkily.

"Modesty in you is unbecoming," he chided, pouring himself some more cognac, "For I know the extent of your pride in yourself."

She lifted a shoulder a bit mockingly.

"Then you will allow me the liberty of enjoying the full extent of my accomplishment when the full extent is actually known."

He gave her a quick, mirthful look.

"Always fascinating, Tatiana," he mused, returning his attention to the cigarette.

She fixed her eyes on him harshly, watching him sharply, content to do so until he relented and pushed her to speak.

"I do not like it when you stare at me so."

"I intimidate you, Anatoly?" she asked coolly, lifting her vodka to her lips.

He laughed sarcastically.

"You're a woman," he responded. That was his way. Not just chauvinistic; misogynistic. He genuinely believed in the theory of male superiority to female, an odd faith he had that Jenny would never understand, considering he so willingly let Svetlana have control.

"That particular fact is why I hold at least some miniscule fascination for you," she quipped, pursing her lips beautifully. He glanced at her, and let his eyes roam over her briefly. He smiled slowly, like a predator watching its coveted prey, and returned to smoking yet again.

"A point I can concede to. You are quite beautiful, Tatiana," he murmured, and then looked at her sharply, lowering his voice with interest. "But I am hardly fooled. Why is it you look at me with your piercing eyes? What still lingers in your mind?" he paused and turned to her completely, back leant against the mantle of the fireplace. "There is an American phrase…ah; you have a…bone to stab with me?"

She scoffed.

"I do not bother myself with American phrases and the like," she sneered.

"I amuse myself with them often," he countered with a little fond smirk. "You have ideas in your pretty head."

"None you have not heard before, Anatoly."

"Oh? And what are those, dear Madame Ivanovich?"

He looked at her piercingly; still intent, and she returned his gaze with the same cold bluntness.

She took a slow drink and sat up a little, looking at him intensely. Then, she smiled condescendingly.

"I daresay you owe much of your reason to celebrate to me, Anatoly," she said deliberately.

His look turned dangerous.

"Ah. And how do you justify that statement, Madame?"

She was really beginning to loathe being called 'Madame'.

She inclined her head a little.

"Were it not for me, the little fiasco your cohort Pretskaya involved himself in—such betrayal, _tsk tsk_—would have undoubtedly been your undoing. Were it not for my…interest in mingling ambitions, I would have been your undoing."

She fell quiet, and they stared each other down. After a moment, he nodded, his mouth shifting a little as if he were considering her in a new light. He inclined his head and lifted his cigar to his moth, indicating he was willing to listen.

"You will reap the benefits, Tatiana," he said mildly. "If it is payment you are after; you will earn what you've wrought when the bill comes through," he smirked, and she allowed one for him as well.

"Not a doubt of that do I have," she said smoothly. "It is gratitude I seek; a show of it. Contrary to your belief, it is not simply for participating in your arms deals, but for the valuable connection to the CIA I have put on the line for you."

"You speak of the KGB code again," he said bluntly.

She nodded gracefully. He snorted and shook his head.

"Relentless," he murmured.

"A characteristic you admire," she pointed out. "A characteristic that sealed you a bigger payday when I pushed for an American rather than Israeli route," she then reminded him, and he looked at her considerately, the cogs in his mind turning.

Jenny paused, feeling for her next words, and he spoke in the interim, suddenly watching her very, very thoughtfully.

"You are determined to beg of me this number. This that I guard with my life. What makes you worthy, my vivacious Madame Ivanovich, when I have not even shared that glorious secret with my beloved Svetlana? She would kill me for such a number, if she knew I had it."

"Ah, she would never hurt you," Jenny corrected in a sickly-sweet voice. She stood, holding her vodka firmly and drinking slowly until the rest of it was gone, gearing up for a fight. "Svetlana wields her power over your poser government and she exercises her riches and political power effortlessly. I am unlike her. I am independent of country; I operate alone. My connection to the CIA is deep, integral in my work, and it has been put on the line by the distance our liaison requires I keep," she turned her eyes on Anatoly sharply. "For the unfortunate rift that has been created between me and my greatest, ah, _friend_, I seek to console myself with reparations. A way to bribe them and bring them to their knees before me."

"You want to possess the number, hold it in your power, and use it to gain the CIA's trust back? Has it been shattered that very much?" asked Anatoly skeptically.

She pursed her lips coldly.

"The CIA trusts no one. I hardly blame them, considering their fatal blunder in ever trusting me," she slowly smiled vindictively and set her empty tumbler down, approaching Anatoly slowly. She let her eyes admire his room, drawing him into a spell she'd been creating.

She could feel him yielding. Jenny knew if she could press right, hit the right buttons, she could get this. Anatoly was cold and clever and evil, but he was reckless and he liked attention from women. He was malleable.

She tilted her head at him fetchingly, the edges of the short black wig she'd resumed wearing brushing her chin.

"I like power, Anatoly, surely you've discovered that. I like knowing things, I like knowing people. What makes who tick. Your number…it is of but a simple use to you; you love to feel the power it gives you. I want to use it. For the good of Russia. For the good of the Russia we used to know before the West flooded it with," she wrinkled her forehead in forced contempt, "with democracy and ideas such as freedom."

Anatoly looked at her.

"You are a strange woman, Tatiana. You speak of greed, and then you speak of pride in country. You despise our current government. Are you business woman or revolutionary?"

"A bit of both," she answered sardonically, and smirked darkly. "I am a scholar of the Bolsheviks, you might say."

"And you seek to stamp out the hope of the fabled survivor, Anastasia," he quipped.

"Metaphorically," she conceded, and smiled cruelly. "Or literally, whichever opportunity presents itself first."

She was closer to Anatoly now, very close to his face, inhaling the strong scent of his Cuban cigar and his adored French cognac. She'd never touch that vile cognac, contaminated as it was by the touch of La Grenouille. She thought of him when she smelled the cognac and anger coursed through her; she saw her father's face and she blamed Anatoly as much as she blamed Rene Benoit.

She bared her teeth.

"Such cruelty in your eyes, I notice, Tatiana," he stated softly.

She reached out had brushed her fingers, sharply manicured, along his face dangerously, touching as if she might cut him any moment.

"Violence is your aphrodisiac, is it not, my Anatoly?" she asked, referring to him in a more personal way. Tuned to his moods after all the studying she'd done, Jenny saw the subtle shift in his eyes and posture; he was hooked. She smiled, and chuckled softly. "So easily swayed from your love Svetlana, then?"

"Oh, Svetlana will always be Svetlana," he said carelessly. "But you, my dear," he caught her wrist and held it toughly, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. "You are exotic."

"Untouchable," she breathed warningly.

"No, I think not," he fired back, stepping closer. Jenny did not move back; she held her ground, looking at him daringly and defiantly. His breath was hot; she felt it against her face. The cognac smell again, and the cigars. He was drenched in both. "My power and the prospect of gaining it is your aphrodisiac," he said thoughtfully, "and I believe, Tatiana, if I promise you my quaint little number, you would yield to me."

"There are select key words in your statement that beg defining," Jenny said silkily, latching her eyes onto him. She moved closer, her body almost touching his, hardly a space between them. Anatoly reached out and put his hand against her neck, almost grasping her.

"Name them," he said shortly.

"_Promise_," she fired back demandingly. Her eyes flashed. He grinned wickedly.

"You want a promise of my number?"

"Give it to me now," she responded sharply, eagerly.

"Perhaps we play a game for it, Tatiana. I do know how you enjoy games," he said softly, and he leaned forward. His lips brushed hers, and it took all of Jenny's willpower—everything she possessed—to contain a disgusted shiver. "_Eight_," he said quietly, and shoved his mouth against hers, teeth, tongue, and not a shred of gentility.

She had always known Anatoly was violent. She knew violence was the driving force in his nature, his amusement, and his sexuality; she'd known it when he bit her the first time he forced a kiss on her and she knew it now, because this kiss was no different. Just as demeaning, just as unwanted, and just as frightening.

He wanted to draw blood. He wanted to mark her lips. And she dug her nails sharply into his chest, her eyes flashing at him so much more viciously when she shoved him back and held his collar at arm's length. Her face blazed and her jaw stiffened.

"What is it worth to you, Anatoly?" she asked icily.

"The number you seek," he replied instantly, his eyes and lips afire with arousal, "Is scripted in elegant print on a ribbon, marking a page in the bible beside my bed," he finished with a growl, and yanked her towards him by the neck, his fingers digging in, bruising.

She swallowed. He almost made her choice for her. His hands reached for her, grabbing her hips, forcing her into him, stumbling across the room. He had dragged her into the bedroom before she could recognize it; the new chamber was cold, foreboding, and dark, and she thanked god she wouldn't have to look at him.

Somehow, she had known. Deep down, she had known it would come to this. And she and Jethro had never talked it over; not really. He had balked at the conversation. She knew it was something he may have done before. By others, yes; it had been done before. She was almost blinded by her determination and ambition to complete the mission above and beyond.

Anatoly ripped at her dress; alerted again, she smacked his hand away, protecting it so as not to receive questions from Jethro. She tilted her head to the side and he attacked her neck with his mouth. Not gentle, not loving; just brutal and possessive when she wasn't by any means his. He pulled her towards the bed and the heels of her boots scuffed; she pushed her hands into his shoulders as if going along with his violence when she really wanted to shove him away.

He put a tight grip on her wrist and on her neck again, and sudden panic bloomed in her; Jenny shoved him full force back against the wall.

"Anatoly!" she ground out sharply, in an irate, reprimanding snarl.

He looked at her with the fires of hell in his eyes, reached out, and grabbed her, spinning her around and slamming her back into the wall. Losing her composure, Jenny gasped, closing her eyes. He shoved his knee between her legs and pushed her up, supporting her. His kneecap dug into the bullet wound that had never really healed right, that still throbbed, and she winced.

"You have already given me your consent, Tatiana!" he growled. "I want you. You are mine," he hissed. He kissed her again, teeth again, harsh again. Hurting. She curved her hands and raked her nails down his shoulders, trying to rip his shirt. She wanted to get away; he was scaring her; she hadn't expected this roughness.

He plunged his hand up her dress and she screamed, actually screamed. He grinned at her, mistaking the exclamation, and shoved his body against hers. She cursed and slammed her fist into his collarbone; he just shook it off.

"Violent as you said," he grunted, hands groping her.

He put his lips to her ear. Jenny stiffened, working hard to numb herself and detach from the situation, unable to come to terms with the decision she'd made. It occurred to her that she didn't have to do this. Ambition was pushing her; she could let it go—she could run, forget her father and the Frog and just run off with Jethro—but it was too late. These thoughts occurred too late.

She drew blood biting her lip when Anatoly thrust inside her and threw her head back, smacking it against the wall, desperate to keep from crying or screaming. He put his teeth against her shoulder, careless of her comfort, and she gasped in pain more than anything else—even disgust.

He put his hand on her thigh and pushed, hard; she heard him repeating the numbers she wanted in her ear and that sustained her. Knowing she'd done it. Knowing she'd been able to achieve that and this wasn't for nothing. God, she hoped it wasn't for nothing. She felt sick. She felt worse than she'd ever felt before.

She wanted it over. She opened her mouth, her lips hurting from the worrying of her teeth, and resorted to doing something she'd never condescended to do before just to get it done with: she faked it.

…and when it was over, when he had pushed himself away from her and stumbled to the bed, spent and sated and looking at her licking his lips like an animal, she got a drink and she sat next to him and let him touch her, let him distract himself, until he fell asleep.

And she quietly removed the ribbon he'd mentioned from the bible next to his bed.

And she slipped out. She took her coat, she secured the small, elegant Russian pistol she kept at her back, and she slipped the ribbon in her pocket, and she left, her shoulders and back straight, her head held high, and her heart and soul aching.

And she didn't know if it was Tatiana or Jenny walking back to Jethro.

* * *

Special Agent William Decker tucked his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder as he used his teeth to rip open a package of ace bandages, locked in a Russian airport bathroom in the dead of night. He listened to the monotonous ring as he waited for the intended person to pick up, cursing under his breath as he tried to wrap the two broken fingers on his left hand steadily.

"Gibbs," answered the familiar gruff voice, terse and a little angry.

"Decker," he answered, indicating it was all right for Gibbs to speak freely of the mission. "Sit rep," he requested urgently.

"Keeping tabs on Chenetskaya," Gibbs replied promptly. "She's been talking to contacts all night, following the deal closely. She's acting like a woman with suspicions."

"Not good," muttered Decker. "Morrow contacted me 'bout an hour ago, Gibbs. Time's up. He wants us out in the next twenty-four hours, and them dead before they have a chance to know the deal's gone south. Our marines work fast and the Israelis work faster," he said quickly, cursing again as he whacked his hand against the sink, turning it on to wash the blood off.

He'd come off slightly worse for wear in a struggle with Igor Solzenik before he'd put a bullet in the other man's skull.

"This it, Deck?" Gibbs asked, alert and listening closely.

Decker nodded, spitting part of an ace bandage out and swallowing before he shoved his fingers into the right place and continued speaking.

"Carry out the assassinations, and then get on a plane back to Paris. NCIS has hotels ready. Your passports are in your mail locker at the St. Petersburg hotel you're at," he paused, grunting as he managed to wrap his hand securely this time. "Solzenik is dead. I just called it in; I'm on a flight to Nice in about twenty minutes so I don't have time to talk. Call Shepard," he stopped, took hold of the phone, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

"Hey, Gibbs," he said sternly, "Make sure Shepard gets the job done."

"She will," answered Gibbs simply, and Decker heard the dull click of the phone. Gibbs was never a talker; he was probably already holding a gun to Anatoly Zulov's head.

Decker shoved his phone in his pocket and glared at his injured hand, hoisting up his carry-on duffle bag and making sure the fake passport that was his life right now was in his pocket. He pushed Solzenik's' murder from his head, desperate to get home to the states where a position in Los Angeles waited for him.

This might be the biggest play NCIS had ever pulled off, once Jenny Shepard and Gibbs came through, and not a scrap of it would go down in the books for glory.

William Decker left the airport bathroom, putting the mission behind him from that point on.

He'd never have to face it again.

* * *

In the late night, amidst the relentless snow, wind, and bone-chilling cold of Russia, a lone figure made her way down the ice-stricken street of St. Petersburg, for once oblivious to the beauty and sheer elegance of the old city.

She was letting it swallow here while she was alone.

She was consumed by the chill in her blood, the fear that seemed to chase her wherever she went, and the lurking feeling in her stomach that made her sick. She felt like she was drowning in this, unable to tell who she was anymore, so caught up.

She was consumed.

Alone in the sleeping city, at this time of night, she found herself thinking for once not of the job, not of guns and big arms deals, or the next move, but instead of warm arms and comforting lips. For the first time in a while all she cared about was slipping into bed and forgetting this operation and the stress and heartache it wrought, even if _he_ knew nothing of what plagued her.

She wanted Jethro. She wanted him so badly.

Her jaw set firmly, and her well-loved, soft as butter leather coat buttoned tight against the biting wind and snow, Tatiana Ivanovich, doppelganger to Jennifer Shepard, traipsed gracefully through treacherous terrain to the gleaming hotel that was her destination, her eyes sharp on her surroundings, sure she wasn't being followed.

She was tuned to every sound, keenly aware of the weapon at her lower back and the knife tucked into her sleek, tightly fit boot, so thin not even the man she'd been stalking, the one she'd been precariously close to just moments ago, didn't even suspect.

She was almost on the brink of insanity. She was pushing the edges of her limits, desperate to breathe and so determined to pull this off, the one thing that would catapult her right to where she needed to be to execute her revenge.

Her hand shaking, just barely noticeable, she reached up to tuck a strand of short, styled black hair behind her ear as she stepped up the fancy hotel walkway, the heels of her killer boots clicking dangerously.

A finely dressed concierge opened the door for her, and in clipped, cool Russian she thanked him, careful not to meet his eyes, treating him as if he were no better than the ground she walked on.

The lobby was blissfully empty, apart from a few watchful and lingering employees, and as she stepped into the gold-plated elevator, she almost lost her resolve and gave in to the tears that clogged her head, almost collapsed into the corner and fell apart.

But that wouldn't be prudent. God knows who could be watching at any moment. There was no safety until—

Her footsteps quickened as the elevator reached her floor, the very top, secluded room and she went straight to her door, looking only in front of her.

Her fingers shook as she held the key in her hand, lingering, hesitating outside the door. She had done what she had been ordered to do—anything for the job, anything. She had made a decision and it still stung to the core now, it hurt almost like nothing else ever would.

She had barely thought twice at the time, so wrapped up in Tatiana Ivanovich, so muddled in whom she was and whom she was supposed to be. It had been necessary. She had gotten the Intel at all costs.

Her jaw tightened as she unlocked the door, whispering a few words in French as she entered, a beacon that it was her to her partner. She was back late, she knew, and he would be worried. He was so worried about her now.

"Forgive me, Jethro," she muttered under her breath, too quietly for him to hear. "Help me."

She heard him ask her name, and as she shut the door, leaned back heavily against it, reached up, and ripped the black wig from her hair, almost crying in relief as _her_ long, red curls spilled down her shoulders.

"Jen," he breathed, and he was in front of her in a second, touching her face and her shoulder.

"I can't do this anymore, Jethro," she said hoarsely, tears falling from her eyes. It didn't matter how much she hated crying and how long it had been since she had allowed herself to.

"What is it? What happened?" he asked, crouching down as she slid to the floor, concern etched in the lines of his face and in his skin. "Jenny?" he questioned gently.

She just shook her head, throwing the wig as far away as possible.

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"Did he hurt you?" Jethro asked, his voice low and deadly.

She raised her eyes to him expressionlessly. She had done this to herself. She had done this to Jethro. It was a numb, black memory that she filed away. Silently, she shook her head 'no', willing him to just accept it for what it was. Her limbs ached, reminding her.

He studied her and nodded briefly; she saw in his eyes that he knew there was something more.

He eased onto his knees and reached out to her, pulling her close and holding her head against his shoulder. He put a hand in her hair, comforting her, always there with such a soothing touch. She relaxed into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"I hate it here," she said vehemently. "I hate this goddamn cold and this evil city," her voice shook, and he knew how much this was getting to her. Eating at her. "Get me out."

There was pleasure, too much vindictive, misplaced pleasure, in what he eased her pain with, in what he was able to tell her.

"We're done, Jen," he said a little gruffly.

She stilled in his arms, hardly breathing, and her skin still so cold.

"Tonight?" she whispered, barely audible, her voice so full of emotion.

He placed his warm lips next to her ear and kissed her gently.

"Decker is already on the move," he murmured.

She drew back some, her always beautiful, always sharp emerald eyes meeting his crystal-like blue ones, her lips parted.

"Svetlana's guards are dead," he said blandly, and she didn't have to ask how he knew. He would have killed them after leaving her if he was ordered to, after their meeting, after drugging whatever they had been drinking.

"Anatoly is alone," Jenny said, and added in a sickened whisper, "asleep."

There was no need to tell him how she had managed to leave him asleep. She hardly expected him to ask.

Jethro nodded to her, reaching out again to touch her face, caress the arch of her neck.

"When it's done," he began, but she cut him off, well versed in the protocol, her words almost mechanic as she repeated back the orders:

"Call it in, do not wait for Decker or you; get the hell out of Russia."

He looked into her eyes, smiling a little. She was so good at what they did.

"Paris," he murmured, and she nodded, her agreement firm.

"I'll meet you in Paris," she repeated.

She was standing, and he was following to, taking his coat from a chair near them, and the old fedora she'd bought so long ago in London, before their relationship had been a flicker in their eyes.

"Get out clean, Jen," he warned, "Clean as a whistle, or we're all fucked."

She just glared, on the edge of her breaking point.

She drew him to her and kissed him hard, unbridled, her hand holding him to her at the back of his neck, feeling his life and his pulse through his carotid artery. God, she loved how he tasted, how he smelled. How warm he was.

The kiss was broken, and he touched her lips, reaching for the door behind her.

"You know the word," he stated, and in her impressive heels, she leaned up just enough to be able to whisper in his ear:

"Oshimaida."

And they were gone, together. And she so desperately didn't want to leave him.

* * *

Stealth.

Years in the marine corp had ingrained the meaning of the word into Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and he used every syllable and the whole of the definition now as he prowled the streets near Anatoly Zulov's manor.

Jenny had divulged that he was asleep; when Jethro had arrived, the house had been empty—devoid of even servants or dogs. He did not know where Zulov could have gone, but his skin was crawling. It wasn't from fear but from rage; his gut was churning, whispering to him that the slick, evil bastard had done something to Jenny.

There had been a look in her eye: hollow and scared. In all the nights of this mission that plagued her, he had not yet seen such a shaken, bent expression in her emerald eyes and he wanted to know why it was there.

He grew increasingly enraged, thinking of the way Zulov sometimes glanced at Jenny, reminding himself of all the times he had ever touched Jen—whether he knew about it or not. Jethro wasn't a fool; he knew Jenny had kept incidents from him. Maybe it was shame, maybe she genuinely didn't care. He didn't know.

He did know that he hated the thought of harm coming to her.

Zulov had harmed her, physically: maybe, but emotionally for sure, and he was going to pay.

The squeal of tires and a clatter drew Jethro's sharp attention. His hand fell to the heavy weapon at his side and he nudged up the brim of the fedora Jenny had playfully bought him in London. Zulov's fancy car squealed into the drive before his manor and the man got out, slamming his car door in rage and banging his fists against it. He let loose a string of loud curses in Russian and stormed violently down the street, away from his house, fumbling in his pocket. He retrieved a gun, and Jethro moved.

Zulov was pissed, and Jethro knew his idea of sport was murder. He'd take out any form of rage on a bystander, and Jethro had no care to find out what had pissed off the Russian so much but he did have a care to prevent an unnecessary death.

He stalked Zulov into a dirty alley, and when the other man paused, stiffening, Jethro stopped loudly, uncaring of preserving his anonymity.

Zulov whipped around, his gun held close.

He laughed sardonically. Jethro approached slowly.

"Svet sent one of her boys to protect me, did she?" he mocked garrulously, his face twisted in disgust and sick amusement. Jethro swallowed the bad taste in his mouth; he thought of Jenny, and how she'd looked when she stumbled back into their hotel room.

His movements were faster than Zulov could register; Jethro cocked his weapon, summoning it to his hands in the merest second, and held his arm out straight and stead. He fired his first shot directly between the eyes and delivered the second just below the heart and when he stepped forward to look down on the body, his face was blank as he stared at the seeping blood.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs pulled his hat over his eyes, slipped his gun away, and left the body of Anatoly Zulov to rot.

* * *

Jenny Shepard's boots were silent on the carpeted floor of Svetlana Chenetskaya's parlor. She entered without a sound, leaning against the front door in the darkness and slipping a bobby pin into her pocket. She had destroyed the lock picking it her hands were so shaky, but she had stayed quiet.

There was a glow from the back of the house. Svetlana's elegant and beautiful study, where she did all of her work. Jenny could hear the other woman's voice, sharp, soft, and urgent in Russian, on the phone with her contacts.

She listened, translating. Svetlana had uncovered the failure of the mission, the betrayal of Anatoly. Her relentless pursuit of detail, her paranoia about her safety, had served her well and she had discovered that something had gone wrong before she was supposed to.

Jenny felt like she was going to vomit.

She swallowed the sour taste in her mouth, set her jaw, closed her eyes briefly, and then straightened. She stalked towards Svetlana's posh study, her coat hanging open to reveal the somewhat mussed grey silk dress and maroon boots. She wondered vaguely if Svetlana would recognize the smell of Anatoly on her when she entered.

The phone slammed down as Jenny appeared in the doorway. She leaned casually against it, turning her fine weapon over in her hand, no pretenses. Svetlana's blonde head jerked up and she did a double take, pausing suddenly and slowly straightening, her hand leaving the phone, her eyes on Jenny's weapon.

Then, carefully, with a sardonic smile, she raised her crystal blue eyes to Jenny's face.

"There was a reason I never trusted outsiders," she stated bitterly, looking at Jenny as if she'd known all along, and she had watched herself make a catastrophic mistake.

"Perhaps you should have stuck with that personal philosophy," Jenny suggested.

"Tatiana," muttered Svetlana, looking her up and down. "You have come to kill me, I gather. You think you surprise me?"

"Oh, I had hoped I might," Jenny responded airily, looking down at the design of her gun. She clutched it. Svetlana's eyes followed. She gave a bark of laughter, shaking her head.

"What a fool I have been," she growled to herself, and then looked sharply at Jenny again. "You were never who you claimed to be, Madame. You took my Anatoly from me."

"In more ways than one," Jenny threw at her ruthlessly.

Svetlana's face blanched. She turned pale white as the meaning of the words hit and her eyes watered suddenly; she looked so shocked that Jenny was suddenly dizzy. She had never expected such a heartbreaking expression of despair to pass the other woman's face.

Jenny felt like she couldn't breathe. For the briefest moment, she saw Svetlana stripped of her deeds and standing there bare, a woman, a woman who had just had the one man she cared for most taken from her. Jenny thought of Jethro. She thought of what she would do if someone viciously rubbed her nose in his death and she couldn't stop.

Svetlana recovered herself, and yet Jenny couldn't.

"No," she hissed, a little brokenly. "No, I do not think you have dared. I do not think you could. I do not think you can kill me, _Tatiana_," Svetlana spat, but there was agony in her voice.

Jenny gave her a hardened look and Svetlana smiled cruelly—and sadly.

"You fear becoming like him. You have always been squeamish when it comes to the kill. I have seen you flinch from his violence. You despise it—you are gentle, and that should have informed me your true nature," Svetlana approached her, coming closer, and Jenny held up her gun, giving the impression of looking lackadaisical and yet damn serious. Svetlana stopped before the barrel. "You won't kill me," she said softly. "You cannot. I ask you not," she said suddenly.

Jenny wavered.

"Do you think I should give a damn for your wishes? You never gave credit to mine," she lashed out.

"I did it all for him!" shouted Svetlana angrily. "All, everything, every crime, every murder, for him, for Anatoly! You cannot help who you love, and I loved a monster—you didn't know him, you didn't know what he suffered to make him what he was!"

Jenny cocked the gun. She should have shot this woman already. She never should have let her start talking. She kept seeing Jethro. She kept feeling Anatoly on her. She was frozen. She couldn't move. She was listening. She shook.

Svetlana jerked her head to the side, and when she looked back defiantly and lividly, her blue eyes were again full of tears.

"I loved him more than anything. Do you know love, _Madame_? What would you do for the man you loved?" she demanded in agony.

Jenny sucked in her breath. It was like a sharp stab to the heart, Svetlana's demanding inquiry. She remembered what she had done with Anatoly, and she thought of Jethro, and she tried to force the trigger but her will was too weak. She could not look into this distraught woman's eyes and kill her.

Without Anatoly, Svetlana would lose all. She would fall apart. And it was ten times the punishment to live without the one you loved than to die in peace with him. Svetlana reached out to Jenny, her eyes wild and angry.

"Do it, you weak bitch. Do what you came to do!" she cried, pointing to her chest vehemently.

Jenny couldn't. She knew it in that moment. She could do the spying, the politics, the subterfuge, but she couldn't do this. Tatiana Ivanovich hated these people, but Jenny Shepard didn't. Jenny Shepard had been separate from Tatiana too long, and Jenny Shepard couldn't kill those with whom she had no conflict.

She couldn't kill Svetlana and she couldn't give her what she wanted. Her body and mind would allow her neither.

Svetlana lunged forward violently and Jenny reacted, swinging her gun back and hitting the blonde hard in the back of the head. Svetlana dropped, hitting the floor by Jenny's immaculate boots, sprawling, blood leaking slowly from the wound at the base of her neck.

And Jenny fled.

* * *

Thousands of miles of altitude, dark night sky, and endless clouds separated her from Russia now.

The plane was dark; not a light on. Few passengers graced it. She was alone, in a row of two sets, curled up tightly against the window, her head hurting as the turbulence the plane was fighting jolted her.

She felt shaky and sick, feverish and nauseous, alone and depressed. Her phone was in her hand, twitching a little as she tried to hold her hands steady. She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing briefly again as a few more tears leaked out.

She forced the flip phone open and pressed speed dial two.

In two rings, Decker answered with a one word.

"Target Acquired," Jenny said firmly, lying through her clenched teeth.

Decker hung up, possibly at the same time as her. She couldn't get off the phone fast enough.

She pressed tighter against the window, putting a hand over her face and bowing her head. She closed her eyes and bit her lip hard, keeping quiet. She would be in Paris in hours, hours that would pass slowly and give her time only to think. She didn't want to be alone with her thoughts.

She wanted Jethro. She had never needed anyone like she needed him right now, and she was simultaneously dreading what she had to tell him. She wondered if she even had the strength to tell him.

Jenny Shepard tilted her head back and looked to the ceiling, her eyes full of threatening tears.

She clenched her teeth, swearing to herself that his was going to be worth it. This goddamn pain and suffering was going to be worth something.

* * *

_What I learned while writing Chapter 10 1) I owe you fluff. 2)Lady GaGa makes me laugh; hysterically. 3)Good Grades make me eager to write.  
-Alexandra_


	12. Bruised

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene!_

* * *

It was sunny in Paris, and all he could think was that Jenny would love it.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs walked purposefully up to the concierge's desk at the luxury Paris Hotel Decker had directed him to. He was greeted promptly, in that sweet, saccharine way the French had.

"Rooms under Vance," he said, giving the name Decker had told him to use. The agency most likely had them use the name of another agent in case anyone ever caught the scent of this mission and traced it; hearing 'Vance' would throw them in a new direction.

"Ah, yes, monsieur," murmured the young man, rummaging through some papers. He turned and retrieved two keys. "Located on the fourth floor, you are the third room and the fourth room. You are still waiting for the other guest?" he queried.

Jethro just nodded curtly, indicating he didn't want to talk, and shoved the keys in his pockets, removing himself from the lobby as quickly as possible.

It shouldn't have taken Jenny long to get out of Russia, and he expected she'd show up casually within the next few hours. He hoped everything had gone well for her. He was worried about her still. They way she'd looked when she came back from Zulov's place was still haunting him and making his gut churn.

Decker was around the hotel somewhere he was sure, but he was also sure the other agent had stumbled straight up to his room for some uninterrupted, much needed sleep. The security that they would have in Paris, out from under the heavy constraints the Russian Op had, was alluring and Jethro himself was trying hard to resist it.

He refused to consider relaxation until Jenny was safe.

By force of habit, he cleared the hotel room as he entered it, on his guard lest anything be out of place. Decker had arranged that their things from St. Petersburg be collected and flown to Paris on the respective flights they were booked on, and Jethro's baggage was in a pile on the bed. He eyed it and then left his hotel room, letting himself into Jenny's.

Sure enough, he found her things in there, and immediately moved them into his room, leaving the other room empty and cool—and probably unused for the duration of this Paris stay. He'd give anything just to lock himself in a room with Jenny for a week or so and never get out of bed.

There was a sharp, resounding rap on the door and Jethro went to it, peering through the peephole cautiously. A stern looking employee stood there and he opened the door, giving him a glare that clearly said he didn't like being disturbed.

"Papers for you at the front desk, Monsieur. I apologize that our concierge did not give them to you straight away," he said cordially, holding out a thick file. Jethro took it, resisting the urge to bark at the other man. He hated being called monsieur, he was just remembering.

The employee inclined his head in a polite nod, turned on his heel in cheap imitation of a well-trained soldier, and disappeared. Jethro shut the door, locked it loudly, and glanced at the sealed file. It was blank all over, except for the last name _Vance_ scrawled in hasty script at the top.

Jethro held it uninterestedly and looked at the clock. By his guess, Jenny would have been on a flight either two or three hours after his; they weren't allowed to be on the same one. She could arrive anywhere from the next hour to the next three, depending on her flight conditions, her experience at the airport…he was going to drive himself crazy thinking about it.

So he thrust the envelope down on the table and ripped it open, pulling the files inside out blankly. His phone rang and he took it from his pocket mechanically, as usual hardly bothering to check the caller ID. It was one of two people: Jenny, or Decker. Morrow had this number, but it was hardly the Director calling for a chat.

"Gibbs," he grunted.

"You want a drink as bad as I do?" Decker asked bitterly. Jethro heard a thunk and a curse on the other line. "Christ _Almighty_ I can't get anyone to speak English!"

"We're in Paris," Jethro said shortly.

"Yeah," muttered Decker, with a string of other curses following half-heartedly. "Got a sit-rep, Gibbs?" he asked dutifully.

"Checked in," Jethro answered concisely. "Shepard's still en route."

"Figured. She called in her kill 'bout eight hours ago. Might be another two hours before she gets in."

Jethro just grunted, spreading out the papers which he had discerned were his and Jenny's orders from this point on. They were entitled to a break, a period of downtime, and they were staying in Paris for that duration to let the dust clear from the Russian Op and see what happened from there.

"Shepard sound good?" Jethro asked, unconcernedly.

"Don't know, she was abrupt. Didn't wanna talk, I figure. Probably wanted to catch some sleep on the plane, if she's as deprived as I am," grumbled Decker.

Jethro laughed sarcastically.

"Ah, shut-up, Deck. Go find yourself a woman," he said, knowing exactly what would prompt the other agent to think otherwise of his _fatigue_.

Decker laughed.

"Yeah, yeah maybe I will. I'm second floor if you need me, but I'm out tomorrow afternoon for Los Angeles. I'm sick of this damn continent."

Jethro nodded, listening as Decker rambled for a minute.

"You gonna stop talkin' anytime soon?" Jethro growled finally, sick of hearing the other man talk and finding it hard to focus on the papers in front of him. Decker gave a low whistle.

"Maybe you need to find the woman, Gibbs," he quipped, and laughed. "All right, I'll let you go then."

"Yeah," grumbled Jethro, and he heard Decker's phone snap shut a split second before he ended the call on his side and chucked the phone down to the desk in front of him, suddenly irritated with Decker and his surroundings. It had been one hell of a past few months, and he wanted to be left in peace.

He wasn't even sure he wanted Jenny around right now. He just felt hostile. And then, as it always happened when he'd been away from his home for months and he was almost ready to return, that ache flared in his chest when he remembered how empty the house was. No Kelly. No Shannon. No matter how long they'd been gone, that hurt always reared its ugly head.

He didn't want to go home to that godforsaken empty house.

His phone rang again; shrill, piercing and obnoxious. He forced it open.

"What?" he barked, another wave of irritation hitting him.

"It's nice to hear your voice, too, sweetheart," Jenny said sarcastically. She sounded tired, but that snarky comment was more amusement than he'd gotten out of her since…Serbia, and it was such a relief it almost made him laugh.

"Jen," he mumbled, regretting it immediately and backing off. "It _is_ good to hear your voice," he continued sincerely, lowering his.

"You too," she murmured back. "I'm at Charles de Gaulle. I figure I'll be at the hotel in another hour, maybe hour and a half," she said quietly.

He nodded, more to himself than her.

"Be careful," he said.

"Of what?" she scoffed bitterly. "They're dead."

"Hey, Jenny," he soothed. "It's over now."

There was a long pause.

"I thought it would feel better than this," she said numbly, and he heard the click as she hung up and snapped his phone shut tensely, thrusting it down on the desk.

He returned distractedly to the files and papers in front of him, trying to read and focus, but the words were swimming together. He was tired and stressed and needed to unwind. He wanted Jenny now, but short of taking a cab to the airport to find her, that wasn't going to happen and he had nothing to do.

The orders in his file were nothing more than he'd expected. Details on signs to look for in Europe in the aftermath of the mission to ensure they had gotten out clean. Reassignment to DC was imminent, with further instructions to be reached once they were back in the states.

He knew it would be a blessing for Jenny, being home in her house and in her country, allowed to be just Jen again and do the easy, every day work of investigating and cases. He knew that would make things easier between them. Then, he thought it was odd he was considering 'them' long-term in his mind. It was just natural at this point. He was thinking of Jenny and the future cohesively; even he didn't know exactly what that meant.

His vision blurred from exhaustion and tense emotions, Jethro shoved away from the desk, unable to even attempt focus anymore. He got up and paced across the room, scrubbing his hands over his face roughly. He checked his watch and it had barely been five minutes. Rolling his eyes at the agitation he felt, he put himself to work.

He called room service and ordered supper, timing it so it would arrive in about an hour. Then he threw caution to the winds and opened Jenny's neatly packed bag, dragging out her toiletries and placing them in the bathroom so she wouldn't have to do it. He closed the curtains in the room and then snatched some clean clothes and a razor from his bag and shut himself in the bathroom.

He took a long, hot shower, and pointedly did not think about Jenny because it simply reminded him how much he wanted her. He frowned as he washed his hair, making a face when he realized just how long it really was. Jenny had commented on it in Serbia, and he hadn't done much to it since; when he finally got out of the shower, he took his razor to it and trimmed it back to his usual crew cut, too heavily reminded of how shaggy he'd let it get those first few months after Shannon and Kelly's deaths to leave it long.

Ever since the corp, he just couldn't stand to have it long. He shaved his face, too, careful not to nick himself in his still-present distraction. He'd pulled on shorts—it was much warmer in Paris—when he heard a soft noise out in the suite. The door shutting.

He wrenched open the door and came out, thinking it hadn't been long enough for Jenny to be here yet, but it was her. She locked the door, and didn't notice him at first; she kicked the small duffle bag she had with her away feebly.

He walked over to her and touched her shoulder.

"Jethro," she mumbled thankfully. She didn't even look at him; she threw herself at him, burrowing close, her arms slipped tightly around his shoulders and her face buried in his neck. Her lips touched his skin and he felt her bite her lip; he hesitantly placed his hand on her shoulders and squeezed, rubbing gently.

She was shaking all over, like she was cold, so he hugged her tighter.

She clung to him almost as if she hadn't seen him in years.

"What is it, Jen?"

She shook her head and reached up to touch his newly cropped hair, her fingers slipping as she grasped for the length she was used to. She hesitated briefly and just rested her hand against his neck, shifting her head on his shoulder, and he heard her murmuring something in muted, rapid French.

He could hardly make out any of it, she was speaking so softly and so fast, but he noted it didn't sound pleasant. She stopped talking after a moment and he brushed her hair away from her face; he wasn't sure how long he stood there with her. It may have been hours or split seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

"I love you," she said to him, gripping the back of his neck gently. "I mean it Jethro, I really do. I really love you."

He tilted her head back and gave her a curious look, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to discern what was going through her head just by looking at her wide, liquid green eyes. She blinked, and averted her eyes.

"I know that," he said, shrugging, as he touched her cheek firmly with his thumb and forced her to look back at him. "I know, Jen," he soothed distractedly, because she was acting like something bad had happened to her, other than the initial sordid affair of the mission.

She bit her lip, and then she leaned up and kissed him, hard, cementing her earnest declaration.

He wanted badly to throw her into bed yet something told him that was the wrong idea right now. He kissed her jaw instead, and pressed his temple into her forehead gently.

"I ordered dinner," he offered placidly.

"I can't eat."

"I bet you haven't eaten in two days," he admonished testily.

"I'm not hungry," was her only answer.

"You'll drink something," he muttered.

"_Not_ vodka," she answered rapidly, and looked at him through her eyelashes.

She smiled weakly and laughed hoarsely. He smiled and tugged her back towards the bed, where all of their stuff was. He maneuvered around it instead of simply moving it and lay down with her, tired, finally able to relax now that she was home. She shoved her shoes off of her feet and curled up, reaching for his face and touching the clean-shaven skin experimentally. He stared at her and she flicked her eyes away immediately, looking at his lips, then at his chest—anywhere but his eyes.

He hated to think it, but it made him suspicious; it made his stomach turn. Jenny never shied from eye contact. He reached up and stopped her hand, stroking her knuckles.

"Something's wrong, Jenny," he accused passively.

"I'm fine."

Her right eye twitched traitorously, unbeknownst to her. He glared, biting his tongue to hold back a scathing remark. The knock at the door announcing room service had arrived kept him from trying to fill the silence, and he got up to attend to it.

Dinner was a subdued affair and Jenny, contrary to her statements of earlier, did pick at something to eat. He tried to chalk that reclusive melancholy up to low spirits; he tried to convince himself she'd be fine once she got a good night's sleep and spent a few days carefree in Paris, but he knew it was something more bothering her.

She pushed her food away before him and went about organizing their things meticulously, placing suitcases and bags up against the wall and making use of drawers to compartmentalize. He shook his head disbelievingly and, after finishing his food, cleaned up everything and set the cart outside the door. Jenny was busy arranging things in a drawer. For the fifth time.

"You're making me nervous," he growled.

She paused and then shoved the drawer shut, turning slowly. She leaned against the bureau and looked absently towards the bathroom.

"I want a hot shower," she said quietly, and went past him, dropping the sweater she'd been wearing over a thin camisole onto the bed. He followed her and caught her arm gently, spinning her around outside the bathroom.

"Need company?" he asked, looking at her intently.

She swallowed hard. She reached out and pressed her palm into his chest.

"I…I can't," she said huskily. "I want to be alone a minute…Jethro."

He looked at her imploring.

"Pretend you understand," she ordered seriously. "It's a woman thing?"

"Fine, Jen," he agreed, releasing her unthreateningly.

She shut the door gently and he pushed his forehead against it roughly, pressing his fist into it with all the force of a strong right hook, yet not making a noise.

What the hell was wrong with her?

* * *

Jenny relished a hot shower.

And when she was done, dressed in something she'd almost forgotten existed—shorts and a t-shirt—she wandered out onto the terrace balcony of the suite, unable to find Jethro in the room. She hadn't a clue where he might have gone.

She felt numb. That was the perfect word to describe her emotional state—or lack therof—at the moment. She wasn't scared or angry or sick or depressed; she was numb. She couldn't find words to talk to Jethro, because she thought she'd say too much. She didn't want to look at him either, because he'd always read her like a book. He knew when she was lying; it was uncanny and frustrating.

She didn't know what she should be saying to him. She didn't even know if she was going to tell him what had happened at Anatoly's manor. She had told no one about her feat of acquiring the coveted number yet. The pride of such an accomplishment was still burning hot in the background of her troubled mind, and she tried to cling to that so she wouldn't go mad thinking about what she'd done.

Rather, what she'd let Anatoly do to her.

She stood by the balcony railing, her hand on it hesitantly, silently enjoying the enveloping warmth of the Paris night air. It was such comforting weather, and it avidly reminded her she never wanted to experience Russia again.

Her head was aching; it was a dull, almost judgmental throb and she closed her eyes, wishing it away.

If she brought up the number, it would raise questions, questions she wasn't ready to answer. She had to reveal she had it at some point; the question was, to whom? Decker? A direct call to Morrow?

Jenny tilted her head forward and moved it from side to side, trying to loosen the stiffness in her neck a little. She sighed and then took a deep breath, trying to forget about the stress for a moment just to enjoy the idea that she was safe in Paris again, and the mission was over, and she wouldn't have to don the black wig and name of Tatiana Ivanovich ever again. Hell, no one would ever call her _Madame_ again.

"Jen?"

She glanced behind her, and heard the hotel door shut.

"Outside," she answered back softly.

A few moments later, the curtains shifted and Jethro shuffled out onto the balcony. He came up beside her and looked down without interest. He gave the skyline of the city an appreciative look and then put his hand on her shoulders and leaned over her to kiss her neck.

"It's good to be back," he muttered sincerely.

She bit her lip and her eyes stung.

"Yeah," she answered thickly.

Jethro paused, and she heard him grunt quietly in frustration. She squeezed her eyes shut and silently willed him not to say anything to her, to just let it go for once. He didn't. Honestly, she hadn't expected him to.

"Tell me what's wrong, Jenny," he said. She didn't answer him. "Please," he asked gently, grasping her shoulder and pulling her around. He cupped her face in his hand. She shook her head.

"I'm okay, Jethro," she said shakily.

Her eye gave her away and he clenched his jaw, swallowing yet another urge to challenge her. He sighed and stroked her cheek patronizingly, like he could get her to open up that way. She looked away from him pointedly.

"Come inside," he said shortly. "I got a bottle of bourbon," he added coaxingly.

She gave him a shadow of a smile and pushed away from the railing. Jethro drew the doors shut after she went in, pulling the curtains over them and fastening the lock. Jenny picked up one of the already poured glasses of bourbon and took a generous drink, pausing before the wooden desk next to the French doors when she saw all of the NCIS files among the disarray of papers.

She touched the top one inquiringly; tilting her head down to better read the small type.

"Orders," grunted Jethro, picking up the glass he'd reserved for himself.

Jenny nodded, and lifted the paper with her name at the top, her eyes performing a preliminary scan of the orders. Wind down time in Paris until they were in the clear, and then report directly back to Washington DC field office for a return to field work.

She chewed the inside of her lip, a hollow feeling running through her as she read the words. What an ordinary assignment. She didn't know what she'd expected, but she'd been working hard. She'd met the SecNav. She'd thought…she'd earn more than that. She damn well needed more than that, or the way she'd betrayed Jethro with Anatoly meant nothing, absolutely _nothing_, and the thought of it would kill her.

She put down her glass of bourbon and pushed the desk chair in, effectively shoving it out of her way so she wouldn't tangle up in it trying to get to Jethro. She grabbed his shoulders and kissed him like her very life depended on it; he grunted in surprise and held his arm away from his body so she wouldn't spill his drink.

He set it on the desk and pulled her back onto the bed, sitting for a moment with her scrambling onto his lap while he kicked his shoes off. Then he shifted around and pulled her under him, planting his knees on either side of her thighs.

Jenny pulled his shirt over his head while he struggled to fight her arms out of the way and return the favor; she pulled him down onto her heavily and snuggled into his warmth and his comforting smell.

It occurred to her they had all the time in the world for the next few days. Just to be together. To get lost in each other. And that was suddenly exactly what she wanted. She didn't want to move from his arms ever again.

Jenny moved her hand to the waistband of his sweats and coaxed the drawstring undone, feeling him tighten in response to her touch. She wound her leg around his and flipped him over, jerking the sweats down his legs and kissing her way back up to his chest, where she pressed her lips and her teeth to his shoulder and he tangled a hand into her hair and flipped her back over, crawling over her and hooking his thumbs into her shorts.

He slowly slipped them down, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her towards him. She lifted her knees and he reached with one hand for her panties delicately, coaxing them down expertly.

Jenny tilted her head back into the pillows, closing her eyes and breathing in sharply. He pressed his mouth to her inner thigh and she didn't miss the scratchy stubble of his unshaven face when he did. She clenched her fingers into a fist.

"Jen," he barked suddenly, and she stiffened, startled by the sharp reprimand in his tone.

He splayed a hand on her stomach and rose up on his knees, his eyes on her legs. She cursed under her breath and leaned up. He reached out and touched the inside of her leg, pushing it up so he could see it better. The bruises. She forgot about the bruises.

"What the hell happened, Jenny?" he demanded, touching the outline of the injuries softly. She winced a little, but it didn't hurt much. They weren't nearly as bad as they had been when it had first happened. Marks from Anatoly's knees, and later, his nails. Jethro scrubbed a finger tenderly over one of the red marks.

She didn't answer him and he looked up at her sharply, forcefully.

"Did he do this, Jen? Zulov, did he hurt you?" he asked, recalling her demeanor when she'd returned the night Jethro killed Anatoly.

"No."

Her eye, again. Jethro clenched his teeth, and tightened his grip on her leg in frustration. He couldn't stand not calling her out on the lying for much longer. She pulled her leg away from him sharply.

"You're hurting me," she said warningly, her eyes flashing suddenly.

"Jen," he said tersely. He swallowed his anger and tried to soften his delivery. He felt sick to his stomach about what was lurking in the back of his mind, what needed to be asked.

She looked at him, leaning her head back against the headboard.

"Did Zulov rape you, Jen?" he asked bluntly, preferring to force it out rather than beat around the bush. Because it sure as hell looked like it. He didn't know how else she'd get hurt between her legs like this.

"No," she answered hoarsely.

Her eye did _not_ twitch.

He relaxed considerably, even if his confusion and anger was still there. Jenny twisted away from him out of his grip, and rolled onto her stomach, burying her face into the pillows. He swallowed hard and crawled up next to her.

He rested his hand on her back, feeling her suppressed shaking, and stretched out next to her.

"Why can't you tell me what's wrong, Jen?" he asked desperately.

He reached for her and touched her cheek, rubbing away the stray tears, and wrapped his arm around her, pressing soothing kisses to the back of her neck and her bare shoulders. She mumbled something softly, incoherently, and he thought it sounded like 'because I can't lose you, Jethro'.

And he didn't understand why the hell she thought she was going to.


	13. Sexual Politics

A/N: Thanks to a'serene!

I'd like to make the statement that its miracle this chapter was finished last week at all. I was *swamped* with work. And the only reason the update is (catastrophically) late is because Aly is swamped too, and she had to finish real work before getting to this:)

"She was sitting on her doorstep. She hung up the phone and it fell out of her hands. She knew she had to do this and he wouldn't understand." --Carrie Underwood, 'Starts with Goodbye'.

_

* * *

_

_She leaned against the familiar oak of the study doorway, watching the Colonel work with a smile on her face. He looked up at her and leaned back, toasting his customary glass of scotch and putting a (technically contraband) Cuban cigar to his lips. _

"_No I don't think I want you to move out, Jen. If you leave, who'll do my cooking and my cleaning and my gardening?" he asked thoughtfully._

"_Noemi," she replied helpfully, smirking. He laughed good-naturedly and shrugged, nodding his head in agreement._

"_That she will," he mumbled, taking a drink. He looked at her interestedly and shook his head fondly. "Damn, I did a good job raising you," he congratulated with a twinkle in his eye. "You're gonna make me proud, honey." _

_Jenny smiled warmly. _

"_You know how to flatter a girl, Daddy," she said with a roll of her eyes. _

_The atmosphere changed. His smile faded, his eyes darkened to black orbs, and in them she saw a reflection, but before she could turn around, she heard the deafening gunshot and blood erupted from the back of Jasper Shepard's head before her eyes. She screamed, losing her breath, her eyes going wide with the shock. And again, in a flash before her eyes, the slick, sophisticated figure of La Grenouille appeared next to her father and delicately placed the gun in his hand, implicating the suicide. _

_He raised his hand to his lips, winked at Jenny, and made a silent shushing gesture, the smirk spreading over his face evil. She felt sick. She stumbled forward, reaching for her father's neck, hoping against hope for something. La Grenouille was laughing._

"_Traitor," someone hissed._

"_Jen," she heard the Colonel's voice, caring and loving as he always was. "Avenge me," it rasped in an angry whisper. She recoiled from the body and turned away from the blood and gore, looking at her hands. Covered in sticky red blood and she hadn't touched him. She sobbed, closing her eyes against the hot tears, and she darted towards the doorway._

"_No. It wasn't my fault," she cried thickly, looking at her hands. She held them up to him, to Jethro, suddenly standing in the doorway, and he took her hands, looking at the blood. He pushed them away and reached for her face, touching her gently, caressing, and she moved towards him._

_He flung her back. _

"_Why did you fuck him, Jen?" he growled at her._

"_Jethro," she moaned, her shaky hand covering her mouth. Blood on her lips. It wasn't my fault, she kept thinking, desperate, the image of her dead father burned into her mind. _

"_No, but his death is," Svetlana's voice, cold and triumphant, and the click of a weapon as a sleek Russian pistol was pressed into the base of Jethro's skull. The blonde woman smiled at her dispassionately. And she fired. _

_Jenny screamed. She dropped to the floor, clutching at Jethro's hand. She leaned her head into the doorway, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She said his name over and over, ignoring his blood reddening her carpet and her clothing. _

_Jethro looked at her through murky, dying eyes._

"_I used to love you, Jen—" _

Jenny Shepard woke up abruptly and violently, her breath catching in her throat. She was drenched in a cold sweat, curled on the very edge of the bed, her nails digging into her own arm desperately.

She blinked slowly, pressing her eyes shut, fighting down the wave of nausea that hit her. It was dark, the dark, violet light in early morning, quiet and still. She was surprised she hadn't screamed out. Her hair was damp, sticking to her face. Crying; she'd been crying. She wiped her hand through her eyes and shifted slowly, disentangling from the wrapped sheets.

It was hard to believe Jethro wasn't shaking her awake or touching her or moving at all. She could only hear the steady sound of his soft snoring, and when she turned over, she found him sprawled on his back. His jaw was set and his brow was knit; he looked distressed but he was asleep and she left him.

She was glad. She couldn't face his questions or his concern. She didn't want to.

She moved carefully, wary of jostling the mattress too much, and kept swallowing hard to calm down, unable to shake the image. Ghastly. It was a variation of the same dream. Before Jethro, it was just her father, gone from laughing to dead in a heartbeat. After Marseille, sometime in Paris, it had changed: when she turned from her father to Jethro, he had blood streaming from him, always from a different spot.

And now, after Anatoly, it was Svetlana who shot Jethro and the Frog who shot her father. And she just had blood on her hands. She had Jethro, too, who she'd lied to and betrayed and who she would end up hurting more than she could imagine, more than any fight they'd ever had had hurt _her_.

Jenny pressed shaking lips together and curled onto her side closer to Jethro, reaching out to him. She ran her hand over his bare biceps gently, reaching for the hand he'd thrown haphazardly over his chest and slipping hers into it, squeezing his fingers.

She closed her eyes. Jethro grunted. She couldn't sleep, and she had no hope of it. There was too much on her mind to figure out. Tell Jethro or don't tell him; it was eating her up inside. The reassignments, too, bothered her. Back to DC—it seemed too simple. She'd worked so hard. She needed something better, more ambitions, to soothe the ache in her soul.

Jethro jerked his hand from her grip erratically and twisted his head, his brow crinkling. She looked over, her hair in her face. He groaned and tensed up, muttering something in his sleep. Jenny pressed her hand against his arm gently, hoping to lull him back to peace. His eyes moved rapidly under his lids and he ground his teeth together. She couldn't lie next to him and ignore the signs that he was having a nightmare.

She rolled over to him and curled up to his side, trying to relax him without waking him up. God knew they needed sleep more than anything right now, the both of them. She massaged his shoulder gently and his muscles jumped tensely under her hand.

"Kelly," he moaned hoarsely.

Jenny furrowed her brow. He sounded so upset. _Kelly. _She didn't think she'd heard him say it before. He mumbled incoherently, he mumbled names, she made out 'Shannon' more often than not, but hadn't for a long time now.

"Jethro," she murmured passively, shaking his arm. He said the woman's name again, and she chewed on her lip, leaning up slightly. He was almost whimpering now. "Jethro," she said forcefully, raising her voice. He thrashed his arm up and opened his eyes alertly, staring at her blankly for a minute.

"Hey," she said softly. She touched his cheek. "Easy."

He shuddered, knocking her hand from him absently as he reached up to rub his face.

"What is it, Jen?" he asked, a little confused.

"You tell me," she replied softly, looking at the distress on his face and stroking his tense muscles soothingly. He looked at her, his eyes full to the brim with either suffering or emptiness--maybe both. She leaned over him more comfortably and he pulled her down close to him, hugging her tightly against his chest. He buried his face in her hair and took a deep breath, his shoulders shivering again. He was shaken up.

She was happy to cuddle up to him and his warmth, taking her own comfort from his embrace without him knowing about her nightmare or her distress. For once he wasn't bothered about her, like he always was. She wished he'd stop caring about her. It would take some of the weight off of her shoulders.

He hadn't had a nightmare in a while, not to her knowledge. She remembered when he used to disappear when he woke up from them, slipping out of bed and more often than not neglecting to come back. A far cry from now, when he pulled her closer to him.

She ran her hand over his chest slowly; listening to his heart beat slow from its too quick pace, pressing her lips gently to his fevered skin.

"Did I wake you up?"

"No," she answered honestly. She raised herself up on her elbow and looked at him, chewing her lip absently. "I was already awake." He rubbed her back and blinked at her, swallowing hard in the silence. Her brow furrowed just a little and she pressed her knuckles lightly to his cheek again. "Are you okay, Jethro?"

"Just a nightmare," he grunted, non-committal.

"You called out," she told him mildly. She hesitated for a moment and splayed her hand across his shoulder, snuggling closer under the covers. "Kelly," she said delicately. "Who was she?"

Jethro looked at her sharply, his eyes hardening for a split second.

So she had finally asked. The odd thing was, as uncomfortable and reclusive as the question immediately made him feel, he didn't begrudge her that. Maybe she had a right to know; he didn't think he could tell her. The nightmare was too fresh in his memory right now, and it was hurting so much.

He squeezed her waist gently and shrugged, looking away from her.

"Tell me, Jethro," she coaxed calmly. She smirked a little wryly. "Unless she's your woman on the side?"

"You tell me everything, Jen?" he asked sharply, snapping his eyes back to her coldly.

She drew back some, biting her lip at the sudden rebuke. His hand slipped off of her, and he didn't bother to place it back. Jenny pulled her hand off of him and remained still for a minute, her eyes clouding. She pushed her hand through her hair and kissed his temple, giving a hurt shrug of her shoulders.

She checked the clock on the other side of him. It was early, but there was no chance of her going back to sleep.

_"_I'm getting coffee," she said dully, rolling away and slipping out of bed. He didn't look at her as he listened to her gather clothing items and don them.

Careless of her hair or make-up, Jenny swept the red locks up into a messy ponytail and slipped her phone into her pocket. She rummaged around for a light jacket, considering it was that in-between, morning, warm-cold breezy weather outside. She couldn't find one, so she picked up Jethro's windbreaker and wrapped it around herself.

"You want me to grab breakfast or something?" she asked dully, pushing things around on the desk for her wallet. Jethro looked over at her and picked his up from the bedside table.

"Here, Jen," he said gruffly. "Take mine."

Jenny wandered over and took it from him. He brushed her fingers with his briefly.

"Be careful," he ordered. It might not be as dangerous a situation as they'd been in, in Russia, but someone could get hurt anywhere. It just wouldn't be fair if she got injured in benign Paris after surviving St. Petersburg.

She smiled a little.

"Are you sucking up Jethro? Do you just want a really big croissant?" she asked wryly. He smirked somewhat and let go of her hand. She shook her head and tucked his wallet into his jacket pocket, turning and leaving the room. She quietly shut the door behind her.

It was so early. Paris was always awake; but it was lazy now. The hotel was almost deserted, aside from the odd, sleepy-looking employee. A young concierge held the door open for her and she pulled the windbreaker closed, blinking in the soft, early morning sunlight.

She stood to choose between a longer, more leisurely walk to a coffee place and a brisk walk to the one just a few steps down the street. It meant she had to decide if she was angry with Jethro, or if she understood.

She opted for the longer walk, and considered the turn the morning had taken. She couldn't say if she was angry with Jethro. It would be unfair to be angry with him, when she considered that she hadn't told him about her father—hadn't ever come close—and she was still harboring the secret of what she'd done with Anatoly back in Russia. She didn't really think she'd ever understand Jethro.

It bothered her to wake him up from nightmares like that. He had nightmares, but only rarely did they shake him up like they had this morning. It was hard because she had to realize that Jethro had his moments of weakness. He didn't want to share them with her that was clear; she wasn't sure she'd ever reach the part of him that bred his nightmares.

She convinced herself that it was because of this she could pull away from him; she didn't want to let him into every single detail of her if he wasn't going to do the same. She wasn't going to bitch about it either; she just didn't dare lay that much ammunition at his feet.

These thoughts carried her to the coffee shop she sought. She was silent and quiet waiting for her orders, and slipped the bag containing breakfast around her wrist, taking the two coffee cups and thanking the vendor in a muted voice.

Perhaps she should tell Jethro. About Anatoly. Yet she couldn't figure out how to bring it up; it was such a terrible subject. She was so ashamed; she didn't want him to hate her. It was eating at her. It was hard to look at him. They had only been here for a day, it was true, but she hadn't slept with him. _That_ was uncharacteristic—for the both of them.

The annoying burst of a cell phone ringing broke through her ruminations. Startled, Jenny deftly balanced the two coffee cups in her left hand before fumbling in her pocket and flipping it open. It was not Jethro or Decker's number.

Her only conclusion was that it must be the Director.

She bit her lip.

"Shepard," she answered.

"Agent Shepard, I assume you're aware of who this is?"

"I hazarded a guess, Director," she replied, keeping one keen eye on her surroundings as she walked back towards the hotel. He laughed good-naturedly.

"Are you enjoying your brief leisure time in the City of Light?"

"You mean the trip I am not paying for?" Jenny replied by way of answer. Again, the Director laughed. She could imagine him shaking his head at her.

"I'll take that to mean you're open to more exotic travel?" he said casually, and Jenny's heart slowed; she focused her listening prowess on the phone in her hand suddenly.

"I figure I'm supposed to take the bait you're dangling," she said, surprised at herself for responding in such a decidedly cheeky way.

"It could be in your best interests."

Jenny took a deep breath. She pressed her phone into her ear, careful to balance her coffee and Jethro's so it wouldn't spill. Calmly, she answered:

"Okay. I've bitten. And I'm listening."

"Then I'll get straight to the point. The agency is implementing a Special Projects unit at the residency in Cairo similar to the one instated in Los Angeles. The response team would handle covert operations, counter-terrorism monitoring, and undercover missions in the Middle Eastern area, which the SecNav and myself find necessary due to the increase of hostile activity in the area. Naturally, this response team is in need of a team leader," Morrow paused.

Jenny's heart jumped into her throat. She swallowed hard, taking in what he'd said, hardly daring to think he was about to offer her that position…he couldn't. She was too young. Too new. He wouldn't…would he?

"I've reviewed possible agents to fill the job—track records, special abilities, technical reports, et cetera. Your FLET-C record and your initial success in DC earned you the opportunity to work with Agent Gibbs in Europe, and since then, the SecNav has looked into your operations and feels you've done an exemplary job, particularly lately in regards to the recently ended mission—"

"Sir," she interrupted seriously, spurred suddenly into a decision. "There's a part of that mission that hasn't been documented yet as I haven't yet informed Decker," she paused hesitantly. "The number we hoped it might be possible to gain possession of?"

"Yes, Agent Shepard?"

"I have it," she said bluntly.

Silence on the other line. Then, slowly, Morrow spoke:

"I commend you on that, Jenny," he said sincerely. He sounded impressed. She couldn't help the slow smile that spread over her face. "I understand why the SecNav sees such ambitious potential in you. What you just told me, though, played no part in making up my mind; I had already decided to offer you the position heading up the Special Projects team in Cairo."

Jenny's heart stopped. She pressed her lips together, taking a deep breath in through her nose to steady herself. In shock, she murmured:

"My orders state I'm to return to DC with Jethro."

"I wanted to opportunity to offer you the position personally, therefore making it clear you have a choice in the matter and we wish to impress upon you that you are not required to accept," he explained carefully.

Jenny nodded, to herself more than anything else. For a split second, her mind was blank excepting the excitement she felt in being offered this opportunity. Something poked at her in the deep recesses of her conscious, yet she couldn't remember what might possibly hold her back from accepting.

"Does the Secretary agree with your decision?" she asked uncertainly.

"Jenny," Morrow said warmly. "He suggested it."

She felt successful. The feeling she'd had the past few days that what she had done had all been for nothing dissipated in the blink of an eye and she felt like clenching her fists and shouting from the rooftops that she'd done this for herself. She'd achieved the first step. La Grenouille was working in the Middle East right now.

She smiled, slowing as she reached the hotel and its gorgeous stone steps. Looking up at them, she refrained from going in and sank down on the steps, resting. Her hand was shaking. She reached up and brushed hair away from her face, setting coffee cups down next to her. She squinted in the brightening sun.

"I simply called to give you that opportunity and to pose the question so you could consider the alternative to returning to investigative work in the sates," Morrow said.

"I do not need to consider it, sir," she said suddenly, her eyes narrowing. It was as if she had tunnel vision. She could only she the gold pinpoint at the end of the tunnel. The prize. Revenge.

"Are you positive?" asked Morrow mildly. "I thought you might prefer to return to Washington and continue working with Agent Gibbs."

"What made you think so?"

"The two of you work well together, in sync even. As if you know each other. It is rare with partners, and I warned the SecNav you might be reluctant to accept a different assignment," Morrow answered slowly.

Jenny swallowed hard. She pressed her lips together. Had she and Jethro been that obvious? Did everyone they came into contact with see it written all over their faces that they were sleeping together, and that the emotion there ran deeper than even that? _No _she told herself _the Director is just acutely perceptive. _

"Jethro and I are partners," she began cautiously. "He taught me everything I know," she closed her eyes briefly and steeled herself for her next words. "But I think I'll always be his probie if we continue to work together. And I never intended to hold a stagnant position at NCIS. I want the position," she said.

Jenny bit her lip.

"I am accepting it," she said confidently.

Director Morrow didn't answer right away.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Agent Shepard. I can see this becoming a very successful venture for NCIS."

"How does this change my current orders, Director?" she asked matter-of-factly, slipping into a firmly professional demeanor.

"You will _not_ in fact be returning to Washington DC. As team leader, you'll have the privilege of collaborating with me in picking members of the response team, and the sooner we begin the better. The agency will arrange for an alternate flight out of Paris for Cairo instead of Dulles."

"Then I'll depart from Paris on the same specified day, but for Cairo instead of DC," she said, cataloging the information in her mind. That was three days. Three days and she was gone. Three days and it was over.

"That is what we prefer," Morrow agreed. "Though if you feel you need a few days in DC to take care of some personal business that would be acceptable. Your time in the Middle East could become indefinite."

Jenny was shaking her head.

"I can make arrangements with my housekeeper for anything I may need. Departing from Paris would be the easiest, I think," she said. She briefly thought of Jethro, and shoved the thought back down. Cut it off quick. Don't drag it out. Did she _have_ to end it? She bit her lip.

"I will make the necessary arrangements then," Morrow said finally, wrapping up the conversation. "Jenny, you may be one of the youngest agents to be offered such an opportunity. You're certainly the only female. Congratulations," he said sincerely.

"Thank you, Director."

"I'll fax your change in assignment to the hotel under the name Vance, though the majority of our communication on details will take place after you arrive in Cairo—"

"Director, it isn't necessary to fax those files over," she said coolly. Suddenly, she didn't want Jethro to see them. The Director broke off, listening to her.

"You aren't concerned about Agent Gibbs being out of the loop?"

"I," she paused, swallowed hard, and lied uncertainly through her teeth. Because she wasn't thinking. And she didn't know what she was going to do. "I would prefer to tell him myself."

"Fair enough," agreed Director Morrow. "I don't think there's anything more I need to address with you at the moment, Jenny," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"The next time I speak to you will more than likely be when you arrive in Cairo," he said matter-of-factly, wrapping up the conversation for sure this time. "Until then, enjoy your last few days of leisure in Paris."

"Thank you, Director," she said sincerely.

"I expect you to go far, Jenny," he said, and they both hung up.

Jenny's hand was shaking so much. Her phone slipped out of her hand and for a moment, she just stared at it, sitting on the concrete steps next to her foot in the sun, looking back at her like it was judging her.

Team leader of a Special Projects team in Cairo. NCIS had a select few such teams; being offered the lead position on one was an honor. It was coveted. Triumph seeped through her veins when she realized she'd achieved it.

And then, she thought of Jethro.

She had agreed to part with him, without a second thought. In those thoughts, it hadn't occurred to her that she might not necessarily have to break off her relationship with him; it had seemed as if in her mind, it was be with him or take the promotion. There couldn't be both; somehow she knew that.

She hadn't considered him. She hadn't factored him into her decision at all. She had bluntly accepted the position. Thinking about it right now, staring at her phone at her feet, she did not regret it. But she felt sick. She didn't want to have this conversation with Jethro. She didn't know how he'd react.

She swallowed hard. There was a lump in her throat.

Slowly, Jenny reached down and picked up her phone. She clutched it tightly in her fist and then thrust it into Jethro's windbreaker pocket. She picked up the coffee cups, one in each hand again, and stood, composing herself expertly and entering the hotel.

She took the elevator up to their floor.

And outside the door, she leaned her head against the wall for a moment and closed her eyes.

* * *

He was still in bed when she went in quietly.

She was surprised.

He was sprawled on his stomach, his face in the pillows, hair sticking up in the back. She locked the hotel door behind her and tiptoed over to the bedside table, placing his wallet on it first and then setting his coffee cup down as silently as possible.

He turned his head towards her.

"Coffee?" he mumbled, opening his eyes slowly.

She lifted the cup delicately and waved it at him without a word. He let out a long breath gratefully and blinked at her, rubbing his hand over his face to clear his vision. He looked at her impassively and then shifted onto his side.

"Jen," he murmured mildly, lifting his hand and crooking his finger at her, beckoning. She set her coffee cup down next to his and sat down on the edge of the bed gingerly. He reached up and shucked his windbreaker off of her with one firm jerk of his hand, pushing it off the bed.

"Come here, Jenny," he muttered, tugging on her arms. He pulled her down against him, reaching behind her to release her hair from its tie. He slipped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her on top of him, running his hands under her t-shirt and bunching it in his hands. He shimmied it over her head quickly. "You pissed at me?" he asked in her ear.

She shook her head a little, pulling back and looking at him. She pushed her hand into his hair and pressed her lips against his, closing her eyes tightly. He slipped his hand over her back and under the clasp of her bra, running his fingers over it thoughtfully.

Jenny pressed her knees into his thighs slightly, pressing kisses to his jaw. He unfastened the clasp on her bra and pushed her over, rolling her under him and throwing the lace undergarment off the bed. She pulled his shirt off his back and arched into him, pressing her skin into his.

"Coffee's going to get cold," she murmured against his neck, shifting her hips towards him.

"There are these things called microwaves…" he mumbled in response. She felt him smile into her shoulder and looked up at the ceiling. She had missed being in bed with him.

Jethro kissed down over her shoulders, pressing his mouth over every inch of her exposed skin he could reach. He dragged his hands down her ribs and waist, slipping his fingers into the waist of her pants and sliding them over her hips. She leaned upwards helpfully and pushed his boxers down, pulling him down to her by his biceps when they were both rid of their clothes.

He stroked his hands up her sides again. Jenny closed her eyes and tilted her head back, pressing her palms into his shoulders.

"Those bruises hurt, Jenny?" he asked gruffly.

She shook her head, squeezing his arms.

He kissed her again and she tangled her legs around his. He slipped into her and she moaned, holding his lips against hers move firmly. He groaned into her mouth moving in her slowly. Jenny pressed her lips against his jaw and his neck; she bit her lip and sucked in her breath, her heart beating against her ribcage. She listened to his breathing quicken and pressed her knuckles against his chest to feel _his_ heartbeat. Somewhere in the middle of it, she realized he wasn't going to cut it.

It wasn't his fault. She couldn't let go. She was too stressed; there was too much on her mind, and too much of it involved lying to him.

"Jen?" he questioned huskily, rendered suspicious by her less than enthusiastic vocals. She swallowed and drew in a deep breath, arching her back.

"Don't wait," she murmured, shaking her head a little. He gave her a look and she grasped the back of his neck, running her fingers into his hair comfortingly. "Do you want me to fake it?" she hissed, raising her brow.

He crushed his mouth against hers. He wound his hand in her hair and pulled her closer, groaning her name in her ear. She tightened her legs against his waist as he fell over the edge and ran her hand over his back, feeling his muscles relax instantly. She let out a breath when he moved out of her and collapsed next to her, reaching for her arm and rubbing it. She swallowed, dreading the conversation they were about to have.

"Jenny," he pushed up on his elbow, looking down at her. It was slightly intimidating. "You didn't—"

"I noticed," she said edgily, flicking her eyes below his eyes to his mouth, for lack of something better to look at. She chewed on the inside of her lip.

"That hasn't happened before."

She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"Not your fault, Jethro," she murmured with a sigh, shifting uncomfortably next to him. Her eyes were stinging. She couldn't look at him. She kept seeing Anatoly flash before her eyes and she felt the sharp stab of betrayal low in her stomach every time. It held her back.

"Dammit, Jen."

She didn't say anything. Too many words and thoughts were tumbling around in her head.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

She opened her mouth to blow him off and push him away and beg him to just leave her alone about it for once, but her words failed her for a minute. Tears sprang to her eyes, and what came out of her mouth was:

"I slept with him."

The complete and utter silence that followed her statement scared her more than anything else thus far. More than anything that had happened in Russia. She swallowed quickly, compressing her lips.

"What?" he asked quietly. His voice was too controlled to be called soft. He sounded more than angry. More than hurt even. She flinched. "You slept with whom?" he asked dangerously, forcing her to say it.

"Zulov," she managed thickly. "I slept with Zulov."

He pulled his hand away from her and she shivered. She stared up at the ceiling, refusing to look at him and swallowing hard again. Her conscious screamed at her, for more than one reason. Why had she told him? Why the _fuck_ had she chosen now, when they were in bed together, of all times?

Jethro rolled onto his back, covering his face with his hand and rubbing it fiercely. He muttered a string of curses under his breath and sat up, pressing his forehead into his knees.

"You _slept_ with him," he repeated in a low growl. He thrust off the covers and fumbled for his boxers, snatching them on and then finding jeans to put on as well. He paced a few feet, then back to the bed, and she felt his eyes on her, hard and demanding.

"That's what the bruises are from?" he asked.

Slowly, she nodded.

"Those don't look consensual, Jen!" he snarled. "Are you sure you agreed to it? He didn't drug you? I swear to god if he did anything—if he—_dammit_, Jenny, I'll go back and dig him up and rip him to shreds!" Jethro shouted.

Her throat locked up and she forced it open. He was trying to give her a way out. Maybe for his own comfort. She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. She bit her lip to steady it and quickly realized that wouldn't do a thing.

"He didn't force me," she asserted.

"He _hurt_ you!"

"He's a violent bastard! So it hurt! That doesn't make it rape no matter what you want me to say!" she retorted harshly, regretting it the moment the words left her lips. She turned on her side and looked at him. He looked back, his hands at his sides, his eyes guarded.

"He's _dead_," he hissed, correcting her use of the present tense. Jethro fell silent and swallowed, staring at her, refusing to let her look away. He made her meet his eyes. "Why did you do it?" he demanded. "Why the hell did you do it, Jenny?"

Her lip trembled and she bowed her head, shaking it in frustration.

"Answer me!" he ordered.

"Because!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "I thought I had to! We were at the end of the line in Russia and it felt like we accomplished _nothing_! We did our job, but it didn't really matter! So we cut off the monster's head, another would just grow back. Someone would just replace Anatoly—and I hated the very idea that everything I'd compromised, everything I'd been party to that I abhorred and disagreed with—would be for nothing once that happened! It made me sick!"

She sat up, drawing sheets around her to cover herself, her hair falling in tangles around her shoulders. She looked away from him, closing her eyes as tears started to fall down her cheeks.

"Sleeping with him made it worth it?"

"No!"

"_No_? Then _what_, Jen? What was the point?" he growled.

She tilted her head back, trying to steady her voice before she spoke. She couldn't. She went on anyway, concentrating on making herself heard through her tear-congested voice.

"That goddamn number, Jethro," she said thickly. "That number that's going to give us a crippling weapon against them in the future. That's the point. That number means we have a weapon against them. It means they can't rise up again because we've got their secret—and dammit, that felt good, to screw them all over like that! It felt like we'd actually done something instead of just another kill—don't you understand? Jethro—" she broke off, searching his eyes for a flicker of something. Her voice faltered. "We talked about this, we considered it. Do you understand?" she pleaded.

He looked at her harshly.

"No," he growled. "No, Jen, sometimes I don't think I do understand you."

"You're not the most straightforward person on the planet, Jethro!" she shouted defensively.

"What if I had slept with _her_, Jenny? What would you have said?"

She shook her head and bit her lip, closing her eyes tightly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She opened her eyes again and looked at him helplessly.

"I hated it, Jethro. I hated him. I hated everything about him and that country and that mission—it was evil and I felt like we contributed more than we'd be able to fix! We needed that number!"

"It wasn't part of the assignment!"

"It was beneficial to the country!" she fired back. "You may not like the way I got it, but goddamnit Jethro, it will benefit NCIS and it will save lives!"

He glared at her. He could have been shaking with rage. But his guarded demeanor collapsed and his underlying hurt flashed in his eyes and he looked at her like he was pleading with her to take it all back.

She pushed her forehead against her knees and sobbed quietly, uncaring if he watched her until she couldn't cry anymore. She heard his footsteps as he moved around, pacing, probably rubbing his face in frustration again.

"You didn't have to do it," he growled at her suddenly. "It wasn't necessary. You made a choice."

"Yes," she agreed.

"Because you were sacrificing yourself for the agency or because you're ambitious?" he asked bitterly. She looked at him, her eyes red and wet, biting her lip harshly. He looked at her sharply, waiting. She didn't answer. She didn't know. She could justify it all she wanted in her head but she didn't want to think about it.

"_Christ_, Jenny," was all he snapped, looking at her tensely, and his eyes searching hers into the depths of her. He looked at her, knowing he couldn't have done it to her, he wasn't capable, and trying to discern if he considered it cheating or if he wanted to push it away and forget she'd said anything and force her to stop that crying. She was crying so much.

He whipped around and yanked a t-shirt from somewhere, pulling it over his head. He thrust his hand through his hair, looking at her again, and his eyes hard and angry. Jenny wiped at her eyes furiously, pushing her hair back. She looked at him.

They met each other's eyes for a minute, the look charged with hurt and anger and misunderstanding and so much more. She shivered, almost quailing under the intensity of his gaze. He turned on his heel and stormed towards the door, his jaw tight, pulling it open.

"_Don't_," she said suddenly, forcefully.

The sudden security in her voice convinced him to stop. He did.

"Don't walk out of this room, Jethro," she continued after a moment, earnest and sincere. "Scream at me, don't speak to me, call me whatever names you want—be as pissed at me as you want—h-hate me…if you have to. But don't walk out of this room," she broke off, no doubt trying to keep her voice steady. "If you do, I don't know what we can ever do to make you walk back in."

Her eyes bore into his back. He listened to her words, and he considered. Did he want to leave? Did he want to turn his back on her and this and forget they had ever happened because of what she'd done? He ground his teeth together. It was no small thing.

He slammed the door shut and then shoved his fist into it.

The silence immediately thereafter was nuclear.

* * *

Jenny stared at her reflection, her hairbrush held numbly in her hand.

Her hair was damp and curling fluffily at the ends, just brushed out from her shower. It had been a long shower, hot until the water turned cold and poured down on her where she sat on the floor against the wall, her eyes closed, trying to force the water to wash everything away.

She was in here hiding from Jethro. She was such a coward.

He hadn't spoken a word to her since this morning. It was late in the afternoon now. She hadn't dared try and start a conversation. He had looked too much like he would snap if she said a word to him.

She stared at herself now: red eyes, pale cheeks, skin pink from the shower. She hated her reflection.

Shaking her head and biting her lip to stop it from trembling again, she ran the brush methodically through her hair one last time and threw it on the sink, pushing it all back over her shoulders. She slipped on cotton shorts and a button up shirt, leaning against the bathroom door reluctantly.

What was there to do out there, with only the silence to sit in and only him to look at? She could apologize. She should apologize. She wanted to apologize, and yet she felt he might hate her for it.

She opened the door, flicked off the light, and slipped out, scanning the room to find him.

Almost reluctantly, Jethro had looked over as the door opened and he met her eyes as she searched for him. He had been leaning over the desk, both hands braced against it, glaring glassily at the papers spread out there.

He blinked, waking from distant thoughts, and looked at her, his eyes guarded.

Jenny shoved her hair behind her ears nervously. She walked over to him, running her hands up her arms comfortingly and chewing on her lip.

"I'm sorry," came tumbling out of her mouth, before she could even think to make it eloquent. "God, I'm sorry. I hate what I did to you," her voice shook. "I've made you hate me—" she broke into tears again, covering her mouth in frustration. She closed her eyes and reached for his arm, squeezing tightly.

She didn't expect him to hug her, but he didn't move. She moved closer and breathed him in, soothing herself with the scent, and pressed her forehead against his chest hard, her shoulders trembling.

"I'm sorry I hurt you Jethro," she whimpered.

She felt him tense and shift. After a few moments, he straightened and rested his hands on her shoulders. He pressed down unthreateningly and then moved her back, looking into her eyes intently, studiously.

"I don't hate you," he said firmly. "I _hate_ what you did," he growled, but even then, she could see that it wasn't just that, it was something else in his eyes. He reached up and cupped her cheek, his eyes narrowing. He flicked his eyes down over her and leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear dangerously. "I hate that he _touched_ you," he growled possessively.

Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. She pressed her hand against his chest and he moved his to the collar of her button up, rending the buttons down the front open pointedly. He lifted her up effortlessly and placed her on the desk. She squeaked in surprise, widening her eyes.

Jethro pulled her head forward sharply and crushed his lips against hers, pushing his tongue into her mouth insistently. She grabbed his shirt and held on, struggling to breathe through his unexpected kiss. He pushed her shirt from her shoulders and ran his hands up her ribcage, cupping each breast in his hand with less gentility than he would normally exercise. She winced and yet pulled him closer, her heart slamming against her chest.

His breathing was ragged when he drew his mouth away, brushing it against her jaw and her neck, lowering his mouth to her throat.

"You're mine," he growled at her, low in his throat.

"I don't belong to anyone," she snapped sharply, suddenly, annoyed by the pronouncement. She bit her tongue immediately.

"I want you to be mine," he rephrased simply, scraping his teeth against her shoulder and moving the waist band of her cotton shorts down nearer her panties, hooking his thumbs in those, too. "I don't want another man to touch you again," he growled.

She gasped. Suddenly it wasn't so annoying anymore. It was ruggedly sexy.

She looked at him and he bit down on her shoulder gently, sucking. She leaned back and lifted her hips, allowing him to push her shorts to the floor. His hands left her cold for a moment as they flew to his belt and she bit her lip, biting back another squeak of surprise when he grabbed her hips and thrust himself into her. She wasn't exactly ready, and held back a cry at the discomfort until he pulled her closer, holding her head against his shoulder, and thrust into her again, wiping all inklings of pain from her mind.

"Jesus Christ," she moaned.

She dug her nails into his shoulders and ran them down his arms while he moved in her, pressing her mouth to his shoulder to keep herself quiet; she didn't know how thin these hotel walls were. His grip on her hips was too tight, bruising, but he had the right to take back what was his, in her opinion, and she couldn't claim it didn't feel damn good.

He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled, tilting her head back and pressing his lips hotly to her neck. She felt the vibration of his mumbled words, didn't know what he was saying, and wrapped her legs around his waist tighter, digger her heels into his back. He kissed her hard on the mouth and brushed his lips against her jaw, biting down again on her shoulder sharply as the apex of her release spread through her.

He held her tighter against him, and like that, he claimed her.

* * *

_What I learned whilst writing this chapter: 1)It is incredibly difficult to write smut/angsty fight scenes while having a conversation with 4 other girls about Tennessee politics and your creepy English teacher. _

_-Alexandra_


	14. His Angel's Kiss was a Joke

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene!_

_I would by no means call this fluff, but I did ease up on the napalm-esque angst, so put away those tissues and laugh a little:) _

* * *

Jenny Shepard leaned against the concierge's desk, unaffectedly examining her nails. Her sunglasses were perched neatly on her head, her hair held back in a crisp ponytail, and she was dressed in an outfit fit for the gym, even if she'd only been out for an early morning run.

She looked up and around, examining the other milling guests of the predominantly American-tourist filled hotel. She turned her attention back to the concierge when she saw him reappear and rested her nails on the counter, tapping them absently.

"Your fax, Ms. Vance," the man said in careful English, eyeing her uncertainly. She knew she looked unfriendly. Too damn bad. She wasn't here for cute conversation. It was early and she was tired and stressed and frankly, had a touch of cabin fever.

She took it from him and thanked him in French, flicking open the file expertly as she moved away towards the elevator. The letter inside was cleanly typed and straightforward: her orders pertaining to the response team in Cairo. Clipped to the orders with a paperclip were a few details of information—bank accounts and the like—and her boarding pass for a flight out of Charles de Gaulle to Cairo. Her plane would take off two hours after the flight she was supposed to be on with Jethro back to DC.

And she still hadn't told him yet.

She figured now was the time. She wouldn't be able to just walk back into their room with a file and expect to get it past him. Not after what had come out last night. He had been asleep when she'd crept out for her morning exercise; dead to the world and snoring steadily.

She took the elevator up, tucking the file under her arm and mulling over the words in her head. She had no idea if he would fight her or not if she told him she was accepting the promotion. It occurred to her that she had no idea at all what they would even do if she stayed and they went back to DC. They sure as hell wouldn't live happily ever after. It really had never hit her before now, when she was faced with the reality of actually having a defining conversation with him about their relationship and what they wanted or…whatever…that she really didn't know what he wanted.

She knew him, and then she didn't.

She'd always known what she wanted. She had joined NCIS with the sole purpose of getting to Rene Benoit and avenging her father. She had that in her grasp. She hadn't counted on Jethro. He was a complication, and as much as she thought he'd thrown a monkey wrench into the mechanics of her plan, she hadn't even thought twice about her feelings for him when she'd accepted Morrow's offer.

She did love him. She _loved_ him.

Jenny glared at the elevator doors as they opened on her floor and grumbled to herself silently. _This_ was why she wasn't sleeping. She had a hell of a practical brain, but she kept letting the stupid, innate feminine nature of her "heart" get in the way of making a decision. God, it was annoying to be a woman.

She slipped the key into their lock and went into the room, shutting the door quietly. Jethro wasn't in bed. She didn't see him anywhere; not through to the sitting area—and the bathroom door wasn't closed, but it was cracked.

Jenny paused. She had been expecting him to be awake and waiting for her. She had expected him to start the 'what's in the file?' conversation so she'd have a way to say what she needed to. But he wasn't here. And she balked from bringing it up. She wrinkled her brow in frustration and chewed on her lip, wandering over to her bags instead. She pulled her patent leather shoulder bag towards her and pulled out her books and files, slipping the reassignment from Morrow in amongst her other things. There would be another time to tell him.

She straightened up and folded her arms, backing up a little. She stumbled into something and jumped away, her heart pounding.

"JETHRO!" she shouted, startled, glaring at him as he looked at her with raised eyebrows. He had a towel in one hand and was probably attempting to hold back a self-satisfied grin. She narrowed her eyes at him and punched him in the shoulder, taking a deep breath.

"There a reason you're so jumpy?" he asked, running the towel cursorily over his chin and bunching it up in his hand.

"You're a _creep_," she growled, advancing on him.

He grinned. Jenny eyed him suspiciously and glanced over his shoulder to the now wide open bathroom door. She stepped closer and reached up to touch his face, running her hand over the smooth skin. He must have been shaving when she walked in. She rose up on her tiptoes and breathed in the cool scent of his shaving cream and smiled.

He ran his hands down her back and to the hem of her shorts, spreading his hand out over the back of her thigh and looking down to glance over her.

"You look…" he trailed off and smirked. "…healthy," he decided slowly, tugging on the edge of the shorts suggestively. "How far did you run?"

"Four miles."

"Both ways?"

"Huh-uh. Two in each direction."

"Mmm," he muttered, reaching back up and pulling on her hair tie antagonistically.

"Stop," she ordered feebly.

He pulled harder and she winced as the elastic jerked hairs from her head when he pulled it out. She sighed dramatically as he twisted his wrist in her hair and messed it up all over her face. She glared at him through the locks of hair.

"Not cute, Jethro."

"I like it this way."

"Yeah? It's my hair."

He shook his head and picked her up, drawing a squeal of surprise. She wrapped her legs around his waist and grinned, even if she was confused and slightly taken aback by how naturally this banter was coming. He was so…at ease. She didn't think he would be—didn't think he should be. It hadn't been twenty four hours since he'd found out she slept with someone else. She smiled and he practically threw her onto the bed, crawling over her and running his hand up the inside of her thigh under her shorts.

"I wanted you here this morning," he growled quietly, nipping her neck gently. She smirked and ran her hand slowly down his chest, hooking her fingers teasingly into denim of the jeans he'd thrown on. She curved her palm upwards and watched him close his eyes.

"You did?" she simpered sweetly. "I see you took care of that yearning yourself."

"Cold shower," he grunted.

"_Right_," she scoffed sarcastically, arching an eyebrow. She felt him smirk again against her throat and she put her lips to his ear seductively. "Don't think I don't know what you were doing in here," she wrapped her leg around his and flipped him over easily. "Thinking of me," she continued, leaning over him.

He had already put her in a better mood. She reached down and touched his face nicely again, smiling innocently.

"I'm flattered," she stated. "Though it is too bad you've already had your fun."

He grabbed her hand, ran his up her arm, and pulled her back under him insistently. She laughed, biting down on her lip in amusement. He touched his lips to hers defiantly and pressed his hips against her. Jenny put her hands on his neck and stroked his skin lazily.

"You're in a good mood," she murmured hesitantly, finally deciding to test the waters. She wasn't the type to enter into some sort of fake, cute, sappy façade of a relationship while discontent and turmoil simmered beneath the surface.

He looked at her and shrugged.

"Paris is a good place," he said cryptically, and before she could question him— she guessed when he saw her furrowed brow and sensed an inquiry— he continued: "Take your clothes off."

She lifted her brows and laughed, tilting her head back. Firmly, she placed both hands on his chest and pushed him off of her, shifting up onto her knees. Inclining her head a little, she took the hem of her tight tank top and yanked it over her head, fingering the hem of her sports bra next. He rolled to his side and snaked an arm around her hips, sliding her shorts down and sliding his hand back up for her panties next.

She smacked his hand away and slowly lifted the sports bra over her head, crawling up to him and unbuckling his jeans.

"You won't mind if I even the playing field?" she murmured. Down she took the zipper with her teeth and he gripped her shoulder in surprise. Smirking proudly, she drew his jeans down, only awarding him a smile and not a word when she discovered the absence of boxers.

She kicked the jeans off the bed and straddled his hips. He groaned and pulled her under him, pinning her to be bed with one hand on her shoulder while he relieved her of the last scrap of lingerie hindering him. She kissed him, murmuring feverishly against his mouth as he moved in her, and thinking yeah, for the moment, Paris was a good place.

* * *

"Coffee?" Jethro offered languidly, coming up behind Jenny on the terrace-like balcony and spreading his arms out next to hers on the guardrail. He pressed into her back and kissed the shoulder exposed by her sagging tank top, resting his chin on her and looking out over the hotel courtyard.

She looked up at the sunny sky, smiling fondly, and shook her head.

"It's too warm for coffee," she murmured dreamily, not really meaning it, but just glad she could say it. She was a slave to this Paris warmth, the warmth she'd missed so much in Russia. He made a noise of outrage against her shoulder and she smiled indulgently.

She turned her head and looked at him. He glared at her.

"Blaspheme," he muttered, brushing his lips against her jaw. She drew her shoulders up in a lazy shrug and grinned again. It was breezy and cloudless outside, just the right amount of cool and warm together. She would bet it was humid in Washington, but here? It was perfect.

"It's beautiful," she sighed, leaning forward and folding her arms on the banister as she looked out. He grunted and straightened a little, considering. They had been all but cooped up in the hotel room, half by choice, and half for lack of anything else to do, for the past few days. They only had two more days here before they returned to the everyday routine of casework in DC.

"I'm sick of hotel rooms," she stated seriously.

He leaned closer to her and pressed his lips to her ear.

"Let's get out of here, then," he suggested, shrugging.

"Are you suggesting site-seeing?" she asked in mock shock, smirking a little.

He tilted his head back and forth minutely and shook his head. Not necessarily. He rested his hand on her back and rubbed.

"Whatever," he decided, unconcerned.

She turned her head and looked at him, studying him intently.

"And just where do you propose we go?" she asked. They had seen the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, walked the bridge at Pont Neuf, and seen the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees. She arched her brow at him expectantly.

He shrugged again.

"Wherever you want," he stated seriously.

She smiled, and she looked at him for a moment, suddenly flicking her eyes downwards and away, squinting in the sun. She chewed her lip hesitantly and smiled sadly, a little ashamed.

"You shouldn't be treating me this nicely," she stated with a hint of bitterness.

"To hell with it, Jen," he growled dangerously, implying he didn't want to hear another word of the Russian mission and the, for lack of a better word, Anatoly affair.

She didn't respond right away.

"I don't understand you, Jethro."

"Forgive and forget," was his brittle answer, he moved away and pressed his hand into her shoulder, squeezing firmly. "You want coffee or not?"

She licked her lips slowly, breathing in quietly.

"Café au lait," she requested simply.

She straightened a little as he drew away from her. He leaned on the railing for a moment, supported by his elbow, and looked down, glancing up at her with a guarded look.

"Get ready," he ordered simply, as he pushed off to go. She smiled softly and took her hands off the railing as well. She wrinkled her nose a little in the wind and he went back into the hotel room, grabbing his cell and his wallet and a few other items. "I'll be back," he said habitually.

She nodded, turning back to the view.

"Hey, Jen?"

"Yessss?" she drawled, glancing back at him.

"Wear somethin' sexy."

She laughed at him as he shut the door and pushed away from the balcony again, figuring she could easily comply with that request.

She waltzed into the bathroom and flicked the shower on easily, setting it to run just the right amount of hot water and stripping clothes off with the bathroom door wide open. She was reluctant to shut the door and allow everything to get steamy and humid.

She didn't think Jethro would take longer than half an hour, depending on how much he dragged his feet and which coffee shop he chose and whether he decided he was going to speak French or be difficult. She didn't dally in the shower, and had her hair up in a towel and was rummaging thoughtfully through outfits clad only in a set of red lace lingerie within ten minutes.

Unable to resist, she went with her favorite. Dark navy, tight jeans that hugged her ankles and worked perfectly with heels. She matched it with a slouchy green v-neck jersey shirt and one of her favorite pairs of emerald heels.

Standing in the bathroom, she shook out her hair, dried it, and left it down, a little messy. Light make-up, Jethro's diamonds earrings, Jethro's jade hand-crafted bracelet, and the necklace he'd given her for Valentine's Day in Russia finished the outfit just as he strode back in with two cups of coffee and she had to admit, she was damn impressed with herself for being ready to go.

She walked out of the bathroom primly and snatched her cup of coffee from him, holding her arms out so he could look at her.

"Do I meet your standards of 'sexy'?" she asked, pursing her lips.

He gave her a critical eye, from head to toe and then back again and stepped closer, making a point of looking down at her cleavage and then peering down her shirt. She grinned and he reached for the neckline, pulling it forward and looking at her choice of undergarments.

"Christmas come early?" he asked.

She laughed and swatted him away, taking a careless sip of coffee and ignoring the protest of her burnt tongue.

"I'll take that as approval," she said with a smirk, and smiled at him over the rim of her coffee. He shrugged, for no other reason than to be antagonistic, and she rolled her eyes, still feeling just a little hesitant, and just a little guarded, from him in the recesses of her mind.

She walked over to her things and pulled from the pocket of her duffle bag two cameras, the two Jethro had purchased on a whim in the Serbian town when they'd been there.

"We can have these developed while we roam the city," she said, holding them carefully in one hand and balancing her Styrofoam cup in the other. He looked skeptical.

"They're risqué," he reminded her.

She gave him an odd look.

"Bite your tongue," she admonished. "We're in France. There's no such thing," she reminded him. She'd bet the French would develop anything. She smirked and walked up to him, tapping his shoulder with the corner of a camera. "Since when do you say risqué? Let's just be honest and say they're dirty. Nothing frilly about it," she suggested, wriggling her brows.

He took a sip of his coffee solemnly but his eyes were mischievous. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, pushing him back a little and slipping past him.

"Quit stalling," she murmured, slinging open the door. "It was your idea to go out," she reminded him, letting him out ahead of her. He tossed her the key and she locked the door, tucking the key pointedly into her bra for safe keeping. He shook his head indulgently and she caught up with him at the elevator, stepping in after him and leaning silently back against the wall.

He selected the ground floor and reached over, lifting her wrist with his free hand and examining the bracelet he'd given her for her birthday. He ran his thumb over the uneven aquamarine rocks and slipped his fingers into hers nonchalantly, tilting his head back against the elevator wall.

"Where are we going?" he asked mildly, taking a sip of his coffee.

She turned her head and looked at him wickedly.

"How do you feel about a trek up the Eiffel Tower in the sunlight?"

* * *

Jenny laughed as she stumbled along the green expanse of well-kept grass sprawling out from the Eiffel Tower, ignoring the aching throb in her heels and ankles. She turned around and grinned at Jethro, pushed in up her sunglasses and straightening to wait for him.

He emerged from the group of eager tourists flooding the base of the tower and caught up to her on the outskirts of the green, looking annoyed at the meandering, clueless throng of people.

"Regret those heels yet?" he growled, wincing at the thought of the stairs they'd just trekked up and then back down, because Jenny insisted the elevator was for the lazy, non-specially trained agent tourists.

"Never," she answered sincerely, tilting her head.

He rolled his eyes and she looked past him, admiring the tower's beauty in the midday sunlight and smiling thoughtfully. She glanced at him as he stepped up next to her and followed her gaze.

"It feels nice, doesn't it?" she murmured.

He grunted in response. She lifted her shoulder.

"Not having to worry about getting shot," she clarified.

He looked at her questioningly. She caught his confused look and looked up at him.

"The last time we were at the tower—" she began.

"Oh. That," he interrupted, waving his hand. He slipped his arm around her waist and turned her around, pressing his palm into her lower back and guiding her away from the famous monument. He didn't want to talk about that night, and he didn't know why she was bringing it up. Unconsciously, he reached up and touched his shoulder where he'd been shot.

"'Oh? _That_?'" she quoted, tossing her head in offense. She gave him a look and he grinned, shrugging his shoulders. She blew air out of her mouth skeptically, shaking her head and looked around, ignoring his careless bravado about the wound. It hadn't been as bad as her injury in the Czech Republic, perhaps, but it had meant more. He _had_ taken a bullet that was meant for her.

"Stop thinking."

She looked up at him, frowning playfully.

"I see how it is. You don't like your women to think, _Jethro_?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Depends. What're you thinkin' about?"

"Now he's inquiring after my thoughts," Jenny murmured, as if to herself. "What to do in this situation…"

He pinched her in the side and she yelped quietly, jumping away. He pulled her back, stopping her before a crosswalk that bid them wait for their turn. He glared at her and she glanced at him, lifting her eyebrow.

"Honestly?" she asked.

He nodded slowly.

She chewed on the inside of her lip for a minute. Make something up, or tell him about the promotion now? Tell him she was thinking about how good he was to her and how bitchy and terrible she felt for half the shit she pulled? She blinked her eyes in the sun and looked away, shrugging half-heartedly.

"All good things come to an end," she said finally, figuring that pretty much summed up a lot of what she was thinking and feeling.

"Optimistic," he threw at her sarcastically. She laughed unexpectedly.

"Yeah," she agreed levelly, looking up at him again. "What's on _your_ mind, Boss?" she asked teasingly. He smirked at the throwback to the very first days in Paris.

"I miss my boat," he stated suddenly.

Caught off guard, Jenny burst out laughing. She rolled her eyes pointedly at him as they crossed the street swiftly, but still, the comment bothered her. He couldn't even be halfway insightful about what he was thinking. She tried, even if it was hard for her.

"Jen, you hungry?" he asked.

She glanced around at the options, then shook her head, pulling him off to the side.

"Mind getting out of the city?"

"That means away from the people, right?" he said warily, hardly daring to hope she would allow them to have respite from the mindless idiots wandering around. Jenny smirked and nodded. He gave her a look that said he was all for it.

"I want to see Versailles," she informed him quietly.

"Is it a museum?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's a palace," she said. He glared at her and muttered something under his breath. She smirked and patted his shoulder lovingly. "If you let me drag you to Versailles, we'll see the Bastille after."

"There was a fight there, right?"

"Lots of blood," she agreed seriously.

He nodded finally. It was like bribing an insolent child. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, giving him a curious look. He grinned at her and jerked his head, indicating they should go. She walked next to him, flicking her sunglasses back down and shaking her hair back over her shoulders.

She felt him rest his hand on her lower back again, comfortably, like he always did, and fell back like she was prone to now into thinking about what she'd done in Russia, and how his kind behavior was shaming her, and what the next few days would bring.

He reached across her and picked up her left hand, touching the bracelet again. She gave him a look impassively through her sunglasses and he ran his hand over her knuckles, touching her fingers one by one. Without a word, he let her hand fall and slipped his hand in his pocket. He moved his hand up her back and tapped her gently in the back of her head.

She gasped in outrage.

"What the hell?" she demanded, frowning in mock distaste.

He glared at her seriously.

"Stop. _Thinking_," he ordered, as if he knew just how much thinking cemented her hurtful decisions.

* * *

She felt, by the end of the day, as if they were retracing their steps through Paris, even if they claimed just to be wandering where their feet guided them. She was acutely aware of how different they felt this time. Heavier, with more at stake.

She rested her palm on the old, weathered stone of the Pont Neuf Bridge over the river Seine, footsteps away from walking on it again. A lot of it had started here. Some of it had started in Marseille. It could be said, if one believed in fate, that it had all really started the day she met him in Tom Morrow's office.

Except she believed you made your own fate.

She walked up on the bridge, glad of the scarcity of people. The sun was setting and it was nearing dinner time, so naturally, all the tourists and Parisian lovers were heading to nice restaurants or a romantic visit to the Eiffel Tower. Been there, done that.

She looked over into the water, remembering her freezing cold, impromptu swim in the Seine with Jethro back when Ducky had been in Paris with them. It had been a long time since she'd seen Ducky. It might be longer still.

Jenny came to the middle of the bridge, worming her way between a couple of students who were chattering obliviously, and leaned against it casually, turning to watch Jethro follow her up. Her feet were glad to be rested, protesting against all the walking even if she claimed she was so used to stilettos, they didn't ever hurt anymore.

She shivered a little in the absence of the warmth of the sun; it was chillier nearer to the river.

"Easy, Jen," Jethro warned, leaning back against the bridge next to her and facing the opposite direction. He flashed a grin at her. "Wouldn't want you to fall in."

She straightened up; pushing away from the edge she'd been leaning over and eyeing him suspiciously. He gave her a look of pure innocence and she just glared back at him warningly, daring him to try it.

He stared at her. She held his gaze for a moment, before she blinked warily, because the unreadable, glinting in his eye was making her slightly nervous. He shifted towards her suddenly.

"Jethro," she began slowly, scooting away.

"What?" he grunted nicely.

"What are you—" she broke off with a loud gasp of terror as he grabbed her around the waist and swept her up effortlessly. "—DOING!" she finished, shouting in panic. She winced; fully aware she'd just drawn attention to them. He ignored it, and lunged towards the edge of the bridge.

Jenny yelped, widening her eyes, and kicked at him, half-positive he'd never throw her over—it was too dangerous—and yet not _really_ sure. She kicked violently again as he laughed in her ear, a low rumble. Her heels slammed against the stone.

"Jethro," she gasped, her heart slamming against her ribs. "Stop. This isn't funny. Put me down," she ordered, attempting to be forceful. He smirked and pretended to swing her forward, loosening his grip just a little. She let out a scream of fear and kicked desperately again, scuffing her heels against the stone fiercely. A loud snap followed the movement and her toes rammed into the stone; she opened her tightly closed eyes, looked at her foot, and gasped in veritable outrage.

Jethro paused, his eyes widening.

She seemed to forget he had her life in her hands right now as she stared at the tragically broken heel of her favorite emerald stilettos.

"I am going to kill you," she stated calmly and coldly, without even looking at him.

He slowly put her down, taking his hands off of her and moving away.

She crouched down and picked up the snapped heel, looking at her foot as well and the scratches on her toes. She straightened up, favoring her foot to make her height even, and turned on him, glaring viciously. He held up his hands and backed up, wincing at the sight of the heel held at him threateningly.

"You. Owe. Me. Three. Hundred. Bucks."

He grimaced.

"Jen, can we talk about this."

"YOU KILLED IT!" she shouted seriously.

"It's a shoe."

"It is a Christian Louboutin," she growled.

He rolled his eyes. Jenny reached out and grabbed at him, snatching his collar and yanking him forward. She glared at him, narrowing her eyes and knitting her brows in a fearsome way. He smiled charmingly.

"It isn't funny anymore, is it, Jethro?" she asked seriously, waving her heel in his face.

He pulled back a little, looking sheepish, and she lost her balance, inhibited as she was on only one high heel. He laughed as she stumbled forward clumsily and he caught her, smirking at her arrogantly. She whacked him in the shoulder with her heel and glared.

She jerked away rudely, trying to escape and continue menacing him, but he tightened his grip and placed his lips next to her ear, brushing his lips along her jaw seductively.

"I'm sorry, Jenny," he murmured, as if he were bribing her with one of his rare apologies.

"I hate you."

"Last time we were here, you told me you loved me," he responded loftily.

She pulled back and cocked her head at him, relaxing her hand and her shoulders a little. Her eyes softened and she arched an eyebrow, pursing her lips.

"That'll be the day," she scorned, articulating the words clearly and throwing them at him pointedly.

She relaxed, though. She looked down at the heel in her hand and sighed dramatically, frowning.

"I suppose it's a necessary sacrifice on the altar of you thinking you're the cutest thing this side of Europe," she muttered playfully.

He smirked.

Jenny rolled her eyes and reached up, bracing her hand on his shoulder and hoisting herself onto the edge of the bridge. She sat close to the pedestrian part, careful to leave to room for her to fall, and rested her foot on her knee, unbuckling the heels and slipping them off delicately. She set them next to her gingerly, very close to her thigh and the pedestrian edge of the bridge, and let her bare feet dangle, her hands next to her, gripping the edge.

She liked the view better in this direction. She could see the sun setting, the rays spreading purple and orange and pink and yellow over the darkening sky. It was the most aesthetically gorgeous thing she'd ever witnessed, and she was pleased in a cliché way that she saw it over the Seine in Paris.

Jethro lounged next to her, his elbow between her legs, hand resting on her thigh, the other arm around her waist protectively. She tilted her head, taking a deep breath as she calmed her heart down, watching the sunset. God, it had been a good day. An _easy_ day. She didn't want to break that peace by bringing up anything tense right now.

She pressed her lips together and glanced down at him as he looked at the sunset silently, one of his eyes watching the few people who remained critically. She breathed in again, taking strength from the clean river air, and tried to find the words to bring up Cairo.

"Jethro," she murmured. He glanced up at her neutrally, his blue eyes clear and sharp, and when she met them, what came out of her mouth was: "What would you do if you woke up one morning and I was gone?"

She bit the inside of her lip stoically. Where the hell had that even come from?

He considered her for a minute and then straightened a little as he turned away. He pulled her off the edge of the bridge, careful not to disturb her shoes, and wrapped his arms around her.

"Come get you," he answered offhandedly, with a straightforward shrug.

* * *

_Chapter Title: A line from the song 'Under the Gun' by the Killers. The song fits more than perfectly. Also: the ruined high heels are for Aly; she requested that scenario back when I was writing Paris Nights.  
-Alexandra_


	15. Every Breath We Drew was Hallelujah

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene. _

_Smut galore. Be forewarned. _

_'Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.' --Leonard Cohen, song "Hallelujah". _

* * *

The bed had been haphazardly upended when they tired of it.

Pillows, sheets, blankets, and the comforter littered the floor with their clothing, and the door had been locked since they got in last night and it was almost like the first, passionate days after Marseille except it was infinitely different.

Jenny felt hot and tangled and messy in the midst of the bedclothes with the balcony doors thrown open and the humid afternoon air drifting in, but it was a good feeling, a feeling to hang on to. She relished it; she was glad she hadn't been able to breathe normally in hours and her hair was knotted beyond recovery and everything around her smelled like alcohol and sweat and Jethro.

She rested her forehead against his, half-hearted in her attempts to catch her breath now, while he ran his hand over her fevered skin lazily, his iron grip on her thigh relaxing a little. He muttered something against her ear that might have been a compliment, and she grinned, lifting her head and cutting her eyes at him demurely.

He pressed his hand over the scar on her thigh that had prompted him to tease her that she never quite got her game back from the shot, and thus resulted in her proving him quite favorably wrong. She smiled and pressed her lips to his firmly, a quick, hard kiss, before she moved off of him and collapsed on her stomach, curling her hands around his bicep for a pillow.

Jethro turned towards her and threw his leg over both of hers, pulling her closer, and leaned over her back, brushing his lips over her shoulders and spine suggestively. Jenny just closed her eyes, tapping her fingers against him gently. She might fall asleep again. That was the routine of the day; sleep, make love, don't say much. Something desperate to it all.

They were leaving Paris tomorrow, after all. Everything was going to change. She hadn't spoken to Jethro yet. Her conviction and her courage kept failing her, particularly after his response to her last night. She knew he didn't want her to leave him. So, she kept quiet, because she was too much of a coward to face the hard stuff.

Jethro moved the covers off of her slowly, exposing more of her skin to the warm air. Jenny lifted her head and pushed her hair out of her face, exhaling languidly. She turned over and blinked at him lethargically, brushing her knuckles up against his neck lightly. He grabbed her hand and pinned it back and leaned forward and kissed her, all tongue, no decency.

"Jethro," she murmured, biting her lower lip gently. "For a guy who doesn't say much, you've got a hell of a tongue."

He smirked, worming his knee in between her legs and rubbing his toes against hers. She jerked her foot away, laughing softly in the back of her throat.

"That what you think?" he asked mildly, lowering his mouth to her throat.

"Mmmhmmm," she agreed, rolling her head to the side and tilting it up for him. He shifted towards her, placing both of his hands firmly on her hips, just below her ribcage, where he pressed gently, drawing her hips towards him, his mouth moving over her skin teasingly, lower and lower.

His mouth reached her hips and he kissed her navel, flicking his tongue experimentally over the dip where her hipbone was. He pressed his thumb into her harder and moved his hand fluidly down her thigh, pushing her leg up at the knee.

She pillowed her arm behind her head and looked at him, wetting her bottom lip as she watched him. He met her eyes and cast his eyes towards his shoulder, tapping her kneecap with his index finger insistently. Jenny obliged, resting her heel on his shoulder for a moment before stretching out her leg so her knee was almost pressed against his neck.

He turned his head and kissed her, brushing his lips higher and pulling her hips towards him a little more.

"Oh, god, Jethro," she murmured, raising her eyes to the ceiling and turning her head into her arm and the pillows. She let her eyes fall closed and her lips part as he pressed his mouth against her. She moaned, and twisted, clutching a pillow in her hand tightly.

Her entire world spun. It made her lightheaded, like kissing, except twice as intense. She pressed her heel into the back of his shoulder, moving her hand down her stomach and grasping his on her hip, her nails pricking his skin. He moved his tongue hard and then gentle, teasing until he could feel her frustration in her tense muscles. A few moments longer of merciless teasing and she cried out, closing her eyes and splaying her fingers over her mouth. She gripped his hand tightly and shivered, her knee tightening on his shoulder.

Gently, he extricated himself from her legs and her grip and crawled over her while she was still gasping, slipping his arms around her back and hugging her against him tightly. He rolled over quickly and she sprawled over him, bracing her palms next to his shoulders on the floor and resting on his chest, satisfied.

"Oh, you're going to kill me," she moaned softly, her hands shaking slightly. She couldn't remember feeling this close to someone, this intimate and connected. Then again, she had never spent this long, hours crawling into days, doing absolutely nothing but making love.

"Want me to stop, Jen?" he asked skeptically.

She twitched her knee against his thigh and shifted, smiling slowly against his shoulder when she felt him pressed against her again, arrogantly turned on by what he'd done to her. She cupped his cheek in her hand and nipped his ear, tugging gently with her teeth.

"When hell freezes over," she quipped sweetly.

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her under him again; she pushed her head back and gasped when his hips hit hers and she lifted one of her legs around his back instinctively. She pressed her palm to the back of his neck.

"I'll never mock your stamina again," she breathed, her breath hitching. He snorted derisively; he doubted that, but he filed the statement away for later use. She arched towards him insistently, hardly contented with the affection he'd just lavished on her.

"Yeah?" he asked, thrusting into her and savoring her sharp intake of breath. "You'll never learn to pace yourself, Jen," he groaned.

She shook her head, twisting it in the pillows.

"Not if you keep doing that," she gasped in agreement, crushing her lips against his.

* * *

Jenny woke up slowly to Jethro blowing in her ear, his face far too close to hers as he ran his hands insistently over her ribs until she realized it tickled, giggled, and squirmed away, only to be yanked back.

"That's only sexy in the movies," she commented mildly, putting her finger to his lips and stopping the irritating blowing. He smirked and buried his head in her shoulder, nipping at her neck and kissing her head through her hair. She smiled into her pillows.

"I'm starving, Jen," he grunted seriously.

"Understandable," she remarked, considering their exploits.

She turned onto her back, twisting out of his possessive grip, and sighed, sprawling on her back lazily and kicking the covers away somewhat. She rolled her head and looked at him, arching an eyebrow and smirking.

"You could always make this harlequin novel of a day into a revolting cliché by ordering chocolate covered strawberries and Champaign," she snorted. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"Whipped cream and caramel too?" he muttered suggestively, and she felt him grin.

"With a cherry on top, no doubt?" she responded lazily.

"Or somewhere," he quipped bawdily, and she laughed, her eyes widening a little at the vulgarity of the joke. She felt the vibration of his laugher deep in his chest and snuggled into the mass of bedclothes gracing the floor, deciding on a whim that she was resolved to stay here. She didn't want to move for days.

Jethro rose up on his arms and crawled towards the desk a little, clutching the cord of the phone and yanking it unceremoniously off of the desk. It clattered to the floor and Jenny heard the dial tone as the receiver came away. She rolled her eyes, snorting in amusement, and watched Jethro replace it, looking at the phone thoughtfully.

"Bourbon," Jenny murmured helpfully, resting her head in the pillows again and closing her eyes uselessly.

"What do you want to eat?" he muttered, picking up the phone carelessly and slinging it around, his finger hovering above the room service button.

"Cheesecake," she sighed.

He frowned and rolled his eyes.

"That isn't food," he muttered, dialing the number. He held the phone to her ear and she straightened; apparently he'd decided to leave the conversing with the French to her more skilled tongue.

"Steak," he growled in her ear as she started to order, slipping into her soft, precise and husky French that drove him crazy and made his nerves tingle. He pushed her hair all over one shoulder and kissed her throat, scraping his teeth around her veins, listening to her talk and memorizing every inflection and timbre of her voice.

There was something different about Jenny. He knew it, even if he didn't know what it was, and it wasn't just knowing that she had slept with Zulov in Russia, though the very thought of that still made his blood boil and his head throb with anger. There was something more fragile about her---no, dammit; fragile was never a word he could use to describe Jenny. Hidden. He could sense it in his gut.

He flicked her ear playfully and she swatted him away, haggling over something on the phone. Her voice softened, but that often meant danger. He rubbed her shoulders lazily, working out knots of stress that weren't there for once.

Tomorrow they went back to the states. They faced desk jobs and crime scenes and strict schedules and rules again, and that would throw an inevitable curve ball at them that he wasn't sure either of them could handle. This relationship with Jenny had never been typical, and maybe that's why it had worked. He wanted her with him; it was a base want he understood: he wanted to wake up with her in his bed even when they returned to DC. He had no idea what she wanted, and it struck him that he never had.

If they were suddenly forced into defining their relationship because of the change in location and work pace, it ran the risk of falling apart. Shannon and Kelly lurked in the corners of his house in a way they didn't in Europe, and though it had been on the tip of his tongue to let Jenny into that more than a few times, he couldn't. And when he thought about her stumbling upon his past, he couldn't even predict how she would react.

"The young man claims there is no bourbon," she said, hanging up the phone silently and turning over, settling back in and reaching up to curl her fingers into the hair on his chest admiringly. She pursed her lips for a moment, considering him intently. "I ordered Italian grappa," she murmured.

He nodded, fine with it. Distilled brandy, like wine with a more distinct kick. She slipped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, sighing heavily.

"I ordered," she mumbled. "That means you get up to get the food," she announced, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He lowered his mouth to her neck and tilted his head thoughtfully.

"How long do you think we have 'til then?" he asked innocently.

She laughed, her brows going up suggestively.

"Thought you needed to refuel," she reminded him skeptically, scooting away from him just a little.

"We'll see what you think in five minutes," he growled softly. She smiled and chewed her lip uncertainly, feigning a hesitant look. She sighed and tossed her head fetchingly, frowning just slightly.

"No," she decided slowly. "No, Jethro, I think I've been far too easy for you today," she sighed dramatically.

He glared at her and she cut a wicked glance at him, drawing the covers around her and peeking at him impishly.

"In order to regain my dignity, I shall have to make you fight for it," she drawled solemnly.

"Fight for what?" he growled, shifting up and grabbing her while she tried in vain to squirm away, surprised he'd given in so quickly to the game she proposed. "_Your_ chastity?" he asked, scoffing at her. "Ha. _Ha_." He laughed mockingly, and she gasped in outrage, swatting him in the shoulder and escaping briefly.

"What are you implying, sir?" she asked seriously, squealing as he snatched her back, pinning her beneath him and running his fingers up her sides lightly. She curled up on her side, trying to kick him away.

"You can't resist me," he said huskily in her ear, yanking her over on top of him and then back under him so fast she blinked, the breath knocked out of her, dizzied for a moment. She smirked arrogantly and flipped him over, straddling his hips firmly.

"Oh, Jethro," she simpered girlishly. "You're right," she sighed, brushing her lips against his jaw seductively. "You're so strong and you smell so good—and the way you taste, and your way with women, mmm, I just can't stop…" she grinned wickedly and he dragged her under him again, glaring at her,

"You mocking me, Jen?" he snapped dangerously.

She smiled indulgently and tapped him under the chin fondly.

"Only your way with women," she said sweetly, and he bent forward, attacking her neck with his lips and his teeth. She wound her fingers into his chest hair again, smiling contentedly into his neck.

He kissed her all over, paying more than ample attention to her neck and shoulders before he trailed lazily down again.

"I love your breasts," he mumbled suddenly, curving his palm gently over her. Jenny burst into laughter, her cheeks flushing slightly at the blunt compliment. She curled onto her side again and he tried to pull her onto her back, grinning. She giggled, shaking her head, inexplicably embarrassed. Her laughter covered the sound of the knock at the door for quite a few minutes.

She shushed herself suddenly and hit him in the shoulder, pointing at the door. He started to get up, got tangled in the blankets, and fell on his knees, almost crushing her, and set her off in muffled laughter again as he disentangled the sheets and snatched a pair of wrinkled jeans to slip into as he answered the door.

Out of nowhere, she wondered if when NCIS went over the bills for this Euro trip, the financial department asked itself why the hell there was so much alcohol and fancy meals on the list. If there were any suspicion that she and Jethro were having an affair in Europe, the menu would confirm it.

She sat up as Jethro closed the door, drawing the sheets around her shoulders and waiting patiently. Jethro crouched down carefully and set all of the stuff aside somewhat, then sitting down next to it. Jenny crawled forward and snuggled up to his shoulder, biting down gently and playfully.

"When we're done eating," she purred. "I'll show you _chastity_."

He grinned and yanked her into his lap in a heap, reaching for the bottle of grappa.

* * *

Jethro held up one of the blurry pictures from Serbia and squinted, trying to use the light to see better. Jenny giggled and snatched it from him, earning a warning growl. She narrowed her own eyes at it, as he asked:

"What were we doing?"

"Each other," she responded suggestively, and he snorted, taking a drink of what was left of the grappa. She looked at the picture more closely and shook her head, giving him a more serious answer. "I was trying to take a picture of your boxers, you snatched the camera away."

He snatched the picture and tossed it down, grumbling.

"Don't know why they amused you so much."

"They were _plaid_, Jethro."

"They were a gift," he retorted grumpily.

She just snorted and shook her head, flicking through a few more pictures. There were a few Jethro had taken of her when she was asleep in bed, a few of him asleep—good to know they had the same evil idea of taking embarrassing slumber pictures. She tossed the pictures aside, left with only a few more for them to go through. She picked up one of the last ones, smirking, and held it up.

"This is my favorite," she gloated, admiring the picture she'd taken of him right after he'd seen the grasshopper. He glared at her and tried to snatch that one too, but she held it close to her, shielding it. "You look adorable," she said sweetly.

His response was to snatch the other pictures. He tossed aside a few of her on her back laughing at him, and hiding her face, and picked up the last one he came to, resting his arm on his knee as he looked at it.

It was the first one he'd taken in Serbia, when Jenny had been standing by the fence, looking at him as he pulled it out to show her what he'd bought in town. She was just smiling gently, her hair around her face, dressed simply. Her eyes were wide and expressive. _This_ one was his favorite, even if there were plenty of her naked.

Jenny looked over after a moment, craning her neck to peek at what he was looking at. She set her picture down next to her legs and curled up to his chest, snuggled in the blankets between his legs as they sat against the bed.

She gave the picture a distasteful look and frowned a little.

"I look pale," she remarked in annoyance, remembering that as one of the first days of her injury, when she'd still been recovering from the havoc the unbearable pain had wrecked on her.

"You look beautiful," he said gruffly, giving her a stern look and pulling her head against him gently. She smiled warmly, letting her head rest where he pressed it.

"I wasn't fishing for a compliment," she murmured, flattered. He shrugged and set the picture aside, leaning back and shifting a little. He pushed the sheet off of her shoulders and placed his hands on her, beginning to rub gently with his thumbs and knead with the base of his wrists.

Jenny groaned appreciatively and slumped back into him, counting herself lucky that he'd decided to lavish his considerable skill in massage therapy on her. She was less tense than she'd been in months, relaxed, even, but she would never say no to this.

She would be content if he touched her like this for hours. She closed her eyes and snuggled closer to him, lulled into a half sleep even when he had stopped and run his hands down her arms, lacing his fingers in and out of hers again.

"Jen," he murmured hoarsely, his lips brushing her throat as he spoke, his words a low rumble in his chest. She parted her lips, taking a slow breath before she murmured an answer.

"Mmm?" she asked softly.

"When we get back to the states," he said, "move in with me."

His words came in a rush, and it took her a moment to register them, until her throat locked up tightly and her eyes fluttered open slowly. She tried to swallow, wetting her lips, but it felt like her heart had stopped. What was he asking? What was he _offering_? She finally swallowed hard, and managed to defeat her inability to speak.

"Jethro," she murmured softly, her eyes on his hand suddenly, where he was absently rubbing her left palm soothingly. She pulled her knees up, shifting a little, and her eyes met his, carefully. She saw no reason not to be straight with him. "Are you asking me to marry you?" she asked quietly, and rather calmly, which she congratulated herself for.

His eyes were guarded and impassive.

"No," he said slowly, running his hand up her arm lazily. "If that's what you want," he muttered after, shrugging his shoulders. She studied him intently; her lips parted slightly, her hair falling in a hot mess over her naked shoulders.

His words hit her in all the wrong ways. They hurt her. He had taken the step, he had offered her commitment, and yet, it wasn't commitment. It was the same stoic, cryptic Jethro. The way he refused to answer, and put things on her, brought out in her an insecurity she had never been aware was part of her. If he had asked her to marry him, she thought she might have said yes in a heartbeat, she might have taken back her acceptance of the promotion, but yet, when he mentioned moving in, something had rejected the idea so fast and so absolutely that she hadn't been able to speak. Her ambition and her drive, and not just that. She was scared. The idea of committing to him scared the hell out of her.

"Jethro," she said huskily, barely able to speak suddenly. It was like every bit of stress crashed back down on her.

"It's just an offer, Jen," he said quietly, "for you to take if you want it."

She knew right then she couldn't say a word about Cairo. She also knew right then, in that moment, that she _was_ going to Cairo. He could tell her he loved her, and she was beautiful, and he had told her, and he had told her he didn't want to lose her, but he couldn't promise her she wouldn't be another ex-wife in three years. And he couldn't just say to her that he didn't want her to go and he needed her.

She didn't want to _need_ him if that was the case.

She leaned close and kissed his lips, a long, slow kiss, her mouth lingering inches from his when she broke it. She closed her eyes, her lashes brushing against his cheek.

"Shower," she murmured weakly in his ear. "Long, hot one."

The day was coming to a close, and with it, the peace and passion that had been part of it.

* * *

The mirrors where misty and clouded with steam from the scalding shower, the bathroom was humid and sticky, and the water was a hot, steady massage on her back and over her shoulders. The tiles were slick and dangerous, but Jethro was the one in more danger of slipping if his knees buckled.

He groaned and tightened his hand in her heavy, drenched red hair, gripping her shoulder tightly enough to bruise.

"_God_, Jen."

The rushing water drowned his hoarse compliment out and she couldn't hear him, but she stroked her smooth, graceful hands over the hard muscles of his thighs. He fought to keep his knees from buckling and grit his teeth when his abdominal muscles tightened. His breathing turned harsher and he pulled on Jen insistently, tugging her to her feet and pressing her into the wet tile walls beneath the spray of water, his body tight against hers. His hands shook as he looked in her eyes, lazy and dark emerald.

He drew his thumb along her bottom lip, desperate to feel her around him. He reached for her legs and lifted her up around his waist effortlessly, hungrily finding her lips as he gripped her sides roughly in his hands. He buried himself in her and swallowed her moan into his kiss.

He moved back and thrust into her harder; Jenny scratched her nails down his bicep and he grabbed one of her hands, pinning it back against the shower wall hard. He moaned, muffled against her thick crimson hair, moving in her hard and deep. She arched her back, his name tumbling from her lips desperately, over and over, a shuddering mess of sensitized nerves.

"Jethro," she moaned, the pitch of her voice rising as she bit down on her lip and tightened around him. "_God_, don't stop."

He wasn't worried about her. He had her; she was already gone, and gone again, if he knew her at all. He held back until he thought Jenny was going to cry from the intensity and then the tightness in his stomach snapped and he took her roughly, technique shot to hell. Blood pounded in his ears as he shuddered against her; he may have shouted her name, he didn't know.

He braced his arm against the wall behind Jenny's head as he moved away from her, taking it as a compliment that when she tried to stand, she slipped, and he barely caught her against his chest, managing to keep her from hitting the floor.

She stumbled back, slumping against the wall, and he pressed against her, blinking in the spray of water. He kissed her slowly, exploring her mouth, lost in her and a wasteful amount of enveloping hot water. He mumbled in her ear, he mumbled in _French_ in her ear that he loved her, and she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his throat, her eyes closed tightly.

She felt clean and fresh when they finally tore themselves away from the shower and the enticing steamy bathroom. She brushed her hair out into a smooth waterfall of damp red curls and dressed lightly in cotton shorts and a t-shirt.

The air in the hotel room was cool and invigorating, as the balcony doors were still thrown wide open and the breezy night air had sucked the humidity away. She went about packing, words unnecessary. Both of them felt the weight of tomorrow on their shoulders.

Her suitcase on the bed, things folded neatly in it, other things waiting to be placed and haphazardly scattered around, she stopped, holding in her hand the short silk nightgown that had so attracted Jethro their first days in Paris, her eyes locked on the aquamarine bracelet he'd given her for her birthday.

She felt sick. She felt like she was throwing something away that she should be defending with her entire being. You weren't supposed to turn your back on a feeling like this and _walk_ _away_. She was going to. She looked up at him as he bent over his suitcase, silently begging him to say something to her to make her stay. She wanted to hear him tell her she couldn't leave. She wanted to hear him say he wanted her to live with him, not if she felt like it, but because he wanted to wake up next to her every day. She wanted him to let her in on what it was that still plagued his nightmares. She knew he wouldn't.

He looked up at her suddenly and she blinked, a little startled. His blue eyes met hers and he paused, his brow creasing. He straightened, stiffening a little.

"Jen?" he asked seriously. "What is it?"

She parted her lips, clutching the nightgown in her hand tighter, until her knuckles were white.

"I do not want to leave," she said shakily, and then reached up to cover her mouth desperately, because tears had started to fall. She closed her eyes tightly. She smelled his sawdust-and-coffee-and-bourbon before she felt him slip and arm around her.

She pressed her forehead against his chest, but she knew it had to be the last time she let him see her cry.

* * *

She lay awake in the dark, listening to the curtains rustle and the crickets chirp outside. Without a word and with little movement, she slipped out of bed, where only pillows and a sheet had been replaced, leaving Jethro asleep and snoring, tangled in the sheet. His hand grasped where she had been but he didn't wake up.

Jenny shoved her hair back out of her eyes, chills running all over her. She felt hollow and empty as she walked over to the writing desk. Jenny flicked on the light, slid open the drawer, and pulled out a pad of paper with their hotel's name scrawled in elegant writing across the top.

She picked up a fountain pen, set her jaw, grit her teeth, and began to write.

* * *

_I listened to the song 'Hallelujah' while writing this, because it fits so well. I did not expect my totally ridiculous self to burst into tears. You know what's up next.  
-Alexandra_


	16. Dear Jethro

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene._

_"You made a choice." --Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season5Ep "Lost and Found".  
"I had to do what was best for me. Still do." --Jennifer Shepard, Season5Ep "Lost and Found". _

_'She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the hallelujah.' --Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"._

* * *

Jennifer Shepard's mind was made up. She was prepared to do what she had to.

She leaned against the taxicab that would ferry them to Charles de Gaulle, watching as Jethro helped supervise the cabby and concierge as the two men loaded their things. She had her purse over her shoulder, sunglasses covering her eyes, the exquisite leather coat Jethro had bought her in Positano draped delicately over her arm.

In the pocket, sealed neatly and addressed in her steady, curling script, was an envelope with his name on it and nothing more.

She had steeled herself against it. She was in control.

"There's an hour layover in London," Jethro said gruffly. She moved away from the taxi door and he opened it for her, perching the fedora she'd bought him in London last year on top of his head with a smirk.

She gave him a fleeting smile. She wouldn't be in London. She'd be boarding a plane to Cairo, with a three-hour layover in Istanbul.

Jenny slipped into the cab and leaned back in the dim interior, pushing her sunglasses up on her head where they were almost swallowed by her hair. She swallowed and parted her lips slightly, giving directions to the cab driver in clipped French. They were cutting it close getting to the airport for the midday flight to Washington, D.C.

She felt Jethro looking at her and turned her head, meeting his eyes slowly. She refused to be ashamed or shirk from facing him; that would make it worse. That would make her feel like she didn't really want this promotion, and she did.

He didn't say a word; he just studied her guardedly and intently. She leaned back as if tired and looked out the window, watching the city fly by. She thought, viciously, that she didn't give a damn if she never saw Paris again.

She was so removed from the situation. She felt so numb.

The drive seemed to take longer than it should have. It was too silent, even for Jethro. In America, cabbies made useless conversation. This man didn't. He contributed to the heavy silence that she was sure Jethro could read like a book.

Jethro was out of the cab first at the airport, never one to enjoy them anyway. He reached Jenny's side of the car when she was already getting out, but he took her bag while she avoided the curb and avoided tripping in her impossibly high heels. He slammed the door shut and she squinted in the sun, holding up her hand, but not bothering to flick her sunglasses back down. They'd be in the terminal in a moment.

She followed him to the trunk of the cab, this time helping with their things. Jethro paid the driver and they took inventory of everything piled on the sidewalk before gathering it up and hauling it into the airport, stopping to the side to search for the American Airlines terminal amidst the throngs of people.

This would be depressing even if it weren't so final. Even if it didn't mean what it did.

Jenny looked around and took a deep breath, swallowing hard and touching Jethro's arm gently.

"I'll check our bags, Jethro," she murmured, grimacing at the crowds of people. She spoke the language better anyway. He wouldn't think anything of it. "Scout out the coffee options in the gates, hmm?" she suggested.

He shrugged, nodding, grateful she wanted to deal with the airline people. He started to walk off, his carry-on and hers on his shoulder, as well as her purse.

She caught his arm and took her purse, smiling softly at him. He headed off again, disappearing in the crowds. She found it odd he hadn't protested or made some comment about leaving her alone, but she shrugged it off. She maneuvered her way over to the American Airlines bag check and removed Jethro's papers from the pocket of his suitcase, presenting his ticket and credentials and allowing them to check his bag.

"Only three, ma'am?" asked the young woman in French. "There are two seats reserved under this name," she remarked, looking at her computer.

Jenny nodded sharply.

"We've had a change of plans," was all she offered, and the woman nodded, accepting the explanation. She took Jethro's three suitcases and checked them, tagging them with destinations and the necessaries. Jenny made sure they were clear and moved away, her eyes scanning the signs for the nearest Air France terminal.

She found one. Straightening her shoulders, she dragged her own suitcases and duffle bag over to this terminal and pulled her separate orders from her purse, checking her bags onto the flight from Paris to Istanbul and on to Cairo.

The older French gentleman, gruff and unwilling to speak much, handed her the confirmation tag and left her with only her purse and leather coat, and that was _it_. She had reached her point of no return and there was absolutely no going back now. She was leaving Jethro. She was leaving _him_.

She found her way to the American Airlines waiting gate mechanically, alert and watching the area, looking for Jethro.

"Jen," her heart leapt when she heard him say her name, very close to her ear, gruff and familiar. She closed her eyes briefly and turned to him. He took her arm and pulled her to the side, pointing to a Starbucks kiosk. Jenny groaned in relief. She could use an espresso to hold her over until she'd gone through with this and she could find a bar and get blind drunk.

"I'll get them," she offered, flashing a grin at him knowingly. He smirked.

"Hey, want me to take your coat?" he asked, his brow furrowing. He nodded to it, lifting his brow at her for hanging onto it so tightly, and Jenny shrugged, shaking her head good-naturedly.

"My wallet's in it," she lied, fully aware it was tucked safely in her purse.

He gave her a look that warned he was about to protest her paying for coffee. She gave him a short look and lifted her finger, pointing at him.

"My treat," she said. It gave her the feeling she was bribing him. She felt like a bitch. _Here, darling, at least let me by your coffee before I rip your heart out of your chest and smash it to pieces._ She bit her lip and turned away, walking briskly to the kiosk.

The kid working it spoke English fluently; he looked like a college exchange student and he also looked delighted to spot someone who looked American to speak his native language with. Jenny obliged him, chatting superficially while he rounded up her espresso as well as Jethro's.

She checked her watch before she took them and made her way back to Jethro. It was noon; the flight to DC left in fifteen minutes. She reached him and took a long, steadying sip of her espresso, burning her tongue and biting down on the inside of her lip.

A mechanical, female voice came over the speakers in French, and before she could move onto English and then German or Spanish, whichever was next, Jenny leaned up and murmured:

"That's our call," in Jethro's ear, and tilted her head towards the terminal boarding. He turned and looked and while he was distracted, Jenny looked around the area they were standing at the many seats and side tables and let her purse slip down her arm, placing it in one of the empty chairs.

Jenny thrust Jethro's ticket at him and ran her thumb over hers, reading the seat and the boarding number and burning it into her memories. It wasn't as if she were likely to forget it anyway. A few more moments, and the call for their group of tickets came and she started forward, her eyes straight ahead as she left her purse behind her to wait.

An employee checked their tickets and waved them on.

Jethro made a noise of discontent as they boarded the small plane, finding their seats in the cramped area.

"You want the window, Jen?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head, murmuring softly, raising her shoulders. "You're bigger than me, you take it," she offered. He sat down in the seat, pushing open the window so it wasn't so dark where their pair of seats were.

Jenny sat down next to him, resting her arm lightly on the armrest between them, her coat laid neatly across her lap. She crossed her legs languidly and leaned back, taking a deep breath again, her throat locking up.

She could not cry. She might feel like everything was screaming to a violent stop and she might be hurting like hell, but she could not cry. It wasn't allowed. She didn't deserve to be able to cry.

The bracelet he'd given her and the necklace were in the coat, placed neatly in the same pocket as the envelope. The only thing she kept on her was the diamond earrings from Christmas in Positano, secured snugly in her ears. She didn't take them off, not even now. Diamonds were forever. It was a cliché that she was determined would ring true.

Jethro knocked the armrest between them up and ran his hand over her knee, stroking it up her thigh comfortably. She was dressed to the nines in one of her favorite outfits, attractive and chic. She looked damn good, and she wondered why she did this to him. She broke the promise she'd made to herself not to make this any harder than it was, and she turned to him, uncrossing her legs and reaching for the lapels of his shirt.

She met his eyes hard and leaned in to kiss him. She only touched his face and his neck, drawing out the kiss, slow, and languid, her favorite way to kiss him. He nestled his hand into her hair willingly, pushing back, his other hand curling around her waist.

She blinked back the sting in her eyes, the warning of the stewardess that the plan was done boarding and preparing for takeoff in the next five minutes ringing loudly in her ears.

She broke away from Jethro, her lips brushing against him as she took in a deep breath and looked down, reaching to grasp her coat.

"Dammit," she murmured, for more than one reason. He gave her a questioning look. "My purse," she said looking up. "My purse is at the gate," she swore under her breath again and stood up.

"I'll get it Jen," he said, starting up, but she waved him off.

She placed her coat in the seat next to him, flipping it open so it wasn't so closed up and hidden. She shook her head to indicate it wasn't necessary. She moved out of her seat and into the aisle, feeling as if her knees were about to buckle. She clenched her jaw tightly and looked at him one last time, etching his face into her minds' eye in this moment. She loved his eyes. God, she loved him, and she wasn't going to tell him that. There was no way she'd shove the knife in that deep.

"Just give me a minute, Jethro," she murmured, disappearing before he could say anything to change her mind.

One of the stewardesses stopped her as she was trying to leave.

"Miss, we're about to take off," she warned nicely.

Jenny lowered her voice, managing to keep it steady.

"I am not supposed to be on this flight," she said simply.

The stewardess gave her a confused look, but nodded, and stepped back, allowing her to leave.

She felt like running away from the plane as fast as she could. It was done now. Her footsteps echoed loudly in her ears as she walked back to the gate through the tunnel, deafening her, screaming at her and judging her. She felt dizzy and sick; she thought she was going to vomit.

She couldn't breath.

Her eyes burned, and everything else inside of her burned.

Jenny walked back into the empty gate of the American Airlines flight from Paris to Washington DC and set her jaw as she swept up her purse, leaving her coat, her letter, and Jethro behind as she walked away.

* * *

Leroy Jethro Gibbs knew something was wrong.

He felt it in his gut. He knew when he met her stunning green eyes in the cab and she seemed to ask him to look away from her. He knew when she touched his arm outside the terminal. He knew her, and he knew when something was wrong with her.

He just didn't know what it was, and when she was kissing him with so much intensity in the plane, that's when he knew more than anything. She pulled away from him, and he looked into her green eyes again, the eyes he'd come to love so much, and her lips brushed his. She looked sad.

"Dammit," she swore, looking down and shifting her coat. "My purse," she was saying, "My purse is at the gate," she swore again and he glanced around. He hadn't noticed she didn't bring it with her. Why had she set it down?

"I'll get it, Jen," he offered as she stood up, tense because the plane was about to leave and she had more than a few important items in her purse that they couldn't afford to just leave sitting around the Paris airport.

She placed her coat on the seat a little less elegantly than she usually treated it and shook her head firmly.

"Just give me a minute," she said quietly, her voice forced. She was tense. He narrowed his eyes, concerned. She disappeared before he could growl at her to hurry; he'd kick her ass if he had to explain how he left Jenny in Paris to the Director.

He sat back, cutting his eyes at the coat apprehensively. The captain's voice came over the intercom, beginning instructions to prepare for take-off. He started to lift his hand to wave a stewardess over when he noticed it. Sticking out of her coat pocket.

Jethro straightened, his jaw hardening as he took it and pulled it out, reading his name scrawled elegantly on the front in her familiar handwriting. He knew then. He probably should have always known.

A glint of something caught his eye and he looked back down, his mouth going dry and his throat locking up. It was like he'd been punched in the gut with something heavy. Her bracelet and her necklace, tangled together, left in the pocket of her leather coat. Jethro closed his eyes.

He clenched his fist, bending the letter a little carelessly.

It was over. Paris was over. Jenny was gone.

It hurt like losing Shannon and Kelly had hurt. No, it wasn't as devastating, nothing could ever be quite as devastating as losing them, but it was a damn close second. It hurt physically as much as it hurt emotionally. His head throbbed. He grit his teeth together like he would break his jaw.

"Goddammit, Jen," he murmured hoarsely, under his breath, like he'd cursed at her so many times before.

"Sir?" a stewardess asked, leaning over Jenny's seat and looking at the coat. "She's going to miss the flight," she said uncertainly.

Jethro looked down at the envelope in his hands, the wrinkles he'd creased in it, and swallowed hard. His voice was gritty and bitter when he answered the woman.

"She's gone," was all he said, his voice hollow.

"I need you to put your seatbelt on," she said. "We're about to take off."

She disappeared, and Jethro was relieved. He put his seatbelt on; it was a miracle he managed it. His muscles were tense. His muscles hurt and ached. He leaned forward in his seat, unable to look at her coat or her jewelry or her seat. He shoved his elbows into his thighs until that hurt too and put his face in his hands, his forehead against the letter.

After a long moment that seemed unreal, he lifted his head and turned the letter over; pulling from his pocket the knife Jenny had given him in Positano. He tightened his jaw as he looked at the engraving on it, blocked the memories that flooded his mind instantly, and ripped through the seal, violently chucking the knife aside to lay with her coat.

He threw the envelope aside too, and unfolded the letter, bracing himself, feeling cold. He brought his hand up to his mouth and focused on the words swimming in front of him, hardening himself for whatever she had to say. The paper smelled like her. In perfect cursive, with finality, it began:

_Dear Jethro—_

* * *

_'She said she loved me but she had somewhere to go.' --The Killers, "Jenny was a Friend of Mine".  
A few things: I imagine the song 'Hallelujah' playing for this scene. It is uncanny how perfectly it fits. Its a very beautiful, very sad song. Also: I made the decision to leave the content of Jenny's letter up to the reader's imagination. I do not feel I can do it justice, and as an author, I also feel it is simply better left unwritten.  
-Alexadra_

_*there will be an epilogue. _


	17. Epilogue

_A/N: Thanks to a'serene, for beta-ing this entire series and putting up with more angst than one person should possibly have to. _

_And don't think it ended last chapter (the angst).  
I decided whilst writing this that I hate Don P. Bellisario. Reasons are probably obvious. _

* * *

Kate. Kate was dead.

It didn't seem real. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. He was supposed to be dead. Ari wanted him. Not her. Not…Kate.

_Why did I die instead of you_!

"I don't know," he mumbled desperately, barely above a whisper.

Rain was pounding against the windows. The bullpen was dark, everything at NCIS was dark.

The elevator sounded, the customary noise dull and chilling in the silence. His team walked in, soaked from the rain. They stopped before his desk. He wasn't looking at them. He stared at where Kate was. She disappeared. He stared at her desk.

"Found Ari's sniper nest, Boss," Anthony DiNozzo said.

"Abandoned office building to the east," added Timothy McGee.

Something jingled as DiNozzo held up a bag full of evidence jars.

"Didn't police his brass," he said in quieter voice. It bothered him. DiNozzo was never quiet.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs looked up sharply; narrowing his eyes at the bag his senior agent presented him with. He got up from his desk, coming around and taking the brass from DiNozzo. He shoved them under his desk lamp, squinting to read. He couldn't. His eyes had gotten bad.

"They're lapua, 308," McGee said helpful. He nodded very slowly. "Well…I, I didn't mean that you c-couldn't…see that, Boss," he stammered nervously.

Gibbs looked up at him.

"I can't, without my glasses," he said hoarsely. He looked back at the bag. "Lapua's match grade sniper ammo," he moved around, swallowing hard, holding the bag up again. "You guys find any bullets?"

Kate couldn't be dead. Kate wasn't supposed to die.

"Ahhh…none that matched the casings. I left three guys on the roof searching."

There was a heavy silence.

"Uh, McGee and I will go back to the roof, boss,--"

Gibbs turned around sharply. DiNozzo sounded desperate and upset. The younger agent had done all he could. He flinched the minute Gibbs walked toward him.

"Tony," Gibbs said slowly. "You're soakin' wet. Go put some dry clothes on," was all he said, clapping the goofy agent on his back. He walked over to the window, looking out into the rain. He ran over a few things, thinking out loud. They listened.

_Why did I die instead of you!_

_I don't know, Kate. I'm sorry, Kate._

DiNozzo was hassling McGee behind his back. DiNozzo didn't always know how to deal with his emotions very well. McGee was sensitive. Gibbs listened half-heartedly. Kate, another woman, gone.

"I was standing still when Kate was shot," Gibbs said sharply, in response to something DiNozzo has said.

"McGee lasered the distance at nearly 600 metres—"

"572."

"—slight shift in the wind, he misses you, he hits Kate."

No, it wasn't right. It didn't feel right. Snipers like Ari didn't miss. Gibbs narrowed his eyes. The rooftop flashed in his peripheral vision and he replayed the scene. The flag hadn't moved. No wind.

"There was no wind," he said, controlled anger in his voice.

"What, you're saying he was aimin' at Kate? You're the one he wants to kill!" DiNozzo snapped.

"Ari…he had a thing for Kate," McGee mumbled suddenly.

They started to argue. They started to mumble about useless things. DiNozzo dashed across the bullpen and smacked McGee in the back of the head. Gibbs winced. That was the last thing the kid needed.

"Don't do that, Tony," he reprimanded.

He rested his hand on the computer McGee had been using. He continued to try and work through this. If he could just keep his mind off of Kate and on the case for a while. He glared at the computer, muttering to himself.

"Abby should be in by now," he said suddenly. "Tony, she what she can get off that brass," he walked back over to his desk, scratching his head. _Abby. _Abby was going to cry. He couldn't watch Abby cry. He had to get out of here. He looked around.

"I'm going for coffee," he said almost desperate, stopping in front of them. "Can I get you boys something'?"

They looked at him like he was crazy. Like they'd never seen him before. They both murmured no, still giving him wide-eyed, shocked looks. He nodded, and he left, out into the pouring rain.

He let it soak him, walking slowly, zipping up his coat.

It should have been him.

_What's that famous gut tellin' you, Gibbs?_

He was the one who hadn't given a damn if he lived or died since Shannon and Kelly had been killed. It had been worse, six years ago, after Paris—_no. _He didn't go there. He shook his head.

Kate shouldn't be dead. It should be him. He didn't know if he wished it were.

* * *

He walked back as slowly as he had gone. The rain was never going to let up. It didn't matter; he was never going to feel it. He could only feel guilt, and sorrow, and a dull throb in the back of his mind. Throbbing that never went away.

He was close to the front of NCIS, reluctant to go back in. The air around him whistled, cracked, and glass shattered on the street. Faintly, he heard Abby scream. His instincts jolted into action; he dropped his cup of coffee and bolted for the agency, his blood running cold. His grit his teeth painfully.

"Abby," he shouted, uncertain of what he wanted to hear. He ran up the hallway to her lap.

"Boss, down," he heard DiNozzo snap. He took the lights down as he crouched, coming into the room without his weapon drawn. He went for all the lights immediately, taking every precaution.

He slid down next to them, turning toward Abby.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly, out of breath.

"Yeah."

"Close off Anacostia Park between the bridges. Tell metro cops it's a crime scene," he ordered DiNozzo in a low voice. DiNozzo jumped up and he grabbed him, diving over Abby. She sucked in her breath. "What if he has a night vision scope?" he growled hoarsely, letting of DiNozzo.

"'S a good point...Boss," DiNozzo mumbled, crawling away and staying down this time. Gibbs sat back next to Abby.

"I will get you bulletproof glass."

"There's no such thing, Gibbs!"

"Okay, bullet resistant glass," he snapped. He reached up, breathing heavily, and brushed broken glass from her black pigtails.

"Ari didn't shoot at you and hit Kate by mistake, did he?" Abby asked in her gravelly voice.

Gibbs wanted to cover his face with his hands. No, Ari took her life to spite him. And now he'll try to take Abby's and any other woman he still cared about—no; again; he wouldn't go there. It didn't matter. _She_ wasn't here.

"He's after me now."

Gibbs grabbed her shoulder.

"I was walking by that window when he fired," he said, trying to comfort her and convince himself.

"You're just saying that to make me feel safe," she murmured.

He put his arm around her tightly. He pulled her closer and kissed the side of her head, placing his hands over hers on her knees.

"I'll keep you safe Abby. I promise," he whispered.

He meant it. Abby was more innocent than Kate had been. Abby had never raised a weapon or a harmful hand against anyone. He was angry. He was suffering the same hatred and pain that always came with losing someone.

* * *

It was like he told Ducky. He had lost men in combat. It shouldn't be any different. It was. She had her whole life ahead of her; she didn't deserve to die. She had things to live for, a family, kids someday. He didn't.

Ducky claimed Ari was torturing him. Ducky called them a couple of old Chauvinists. He flinched inwardly at the word. He only ever heard that word in one soft, mocking tone of voice. He shook his head, taking the stairs to MTAC at a run.

_The director wants to see you up in MTAC!_

DiNozzo was a mess.

He wasn't the only one.

He bent before the retina scan coldly, entering the quiet, dangerous bustle of MTAC without a word. A low murmur filled the room; all the screens were up. There were more people than usual. He moved through the room to a set next to Director Tom Morrow, leaning back. The air crackled with the heightened electricity that came with running a special operations mission.

"What do you have?" asked Morrow heavily, his eyes ahead.

"Brass from Ari's sniper's nest. Three bullets. Tire tracks in Anacostia Park, from where he fired a shot across the river into our forensics lab," he answered mechanically.

"Unusual for a sniper not to police his brass," stated Morrow. "Isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"I've received calls from every director I know promising to hunt down this sniper as if he killed one of their own," Morrow said.

Not necessary. Gibbs was going to kill him. Look straight into his eyes and put a bullet between them.

"FBI might be the most help," he said neutrally, instead of voicing his vengeance, "Ari Haswari is their mole."

"I endorsed your recommendation to award the Presidential Medal of Freedom to Special Agent Todd."

Gibbs nodded, swallowing hard again.

"Thank you sir."

"According to your after action report, no one actually saw the sniper that killed Agent Todd."

"Ari was on a rooftop six hundred metres away."

"Extraordinary shot," remarked Morrow.

"No sir," Gibbs said. "Not really." He could have done it easily. He'd made longer ones, harder ones. One particular, in the sweltering hot of Mexico, resting his chin on rocks, firing at a moving vehicle…

Morrow looked at him.

"You were a sniper with the corp, weren't you?"

"Two tours."

"Vietnam?"

"Ah, I'm not that old sir," Gibbs muttered. He looked that old. He felt that old. He wasn't that old, though. "Panama, and Desert Storm," it hurt to say those words. It reminded him of the last time he saw Kelly. When he thought of that, he thought of Shannon, and when he thought of Shannon…someone else.

"Thought you were older," Morrow said mildly. Gibbs smirked a little.

They fell silent as the mission in the room picked up heat, techs springing into action. A man began speaking in what sounded like Arabic or Hebrew, a Middle Eastern language. Gibbs clenched his fist, watching. His gut was churning; it was more than Kate's death now.

The target on the MTAC screams burst into flames. The people in MTAC began to move, congratulating each other, shaking hands. The murmur became a dull roar.

"Good job, everyone," someone said coolly.

Jethro looked around for who had said it. His eyes narrowed.

"Where was I?" Morrow muttered.

"Avoiding using Ari's name and the word 'sniper' in the same sentence," grumbled Gibbs. "Sir," he added derisively.

"Your anger is understandable Jethro. You lost an agent, you want payback."

"Don't you, sir?"

"It's a passion I can't afford."

"You honestly think it wasn't Ari?" Jethro asked skeptically.

"No, but there are those who do," he answered heavily.

"Those who ran him? Those who thought they had the holy grail of moles? Those people covering their asses right now," he muttered bitterly. Ari had done this. He knew it. And it felt good to know it, to have someone to focus all his anger on.

"Make sure you cover yours when you bring him in."

"Won't be a problem, sir. I won't be bringing him in," he said quietly. He meant every condemning word.

"Anyway, you're not my problem anymore, Jethro."

"You firing me, sir?" he asked, with a small sarcastic smile.

Morrow smiled, and buttoned his coat.

"I've been offered a deputy director's position at Homeland Security."

"You would leave NCIS, sir?"

"Ah, well, the agency could use some younger blood."

"Who'd be replacing you, sir?"

Morrow looked at him. His lips twitched up a little at the corner. Gibbs' head ached. He didn't have time for these games. He wanted to kill Ari. He trusted Morrow. A new Director at this time…threw a wrench in the works.

"Not me?" he asked suddenly dreading the way the director was eyeing him.

Morrow laughed.

"As much as I like you, Jethro, I wouldn't shoot NCIS in the head," he quipped good-naturedly.

Gibbs let out a breath of relief. Morrow began to walk away.

"He's your problem now, Director," he muttered offhandedly.

Gibbs had the distinct, crawling feeling he'd just been set up. Morrow stopped next to the front row of seats and then, he knew. Almost before she turned around. He knew he'd heard her voice, but he'd blocked it from his mind.

He braced himself before she turned around, but everything still hit him, full force when she met his eyes, her hair swept back from her face beautifully, dressed to the nines as usual. Her diamond earrings were still in her ears.

He met her dark, sharp emerald eyes without looking away, his eyebrows going up just a little.

_Jenny._

"Hello, Jethro."

Her throaty, soft alto cut to the core. She singlehandedly ripped open all of the old wounds with two simple words, as simple as Dear Jethro, as simple as the bracelet and necklace and old leather coat that were in a box in his basement.

Marseille flashed before his eyes, a hot, stifling attic and her mouth against his, her skin warm and soft under his hands. He remembered everything, all at once. Yet as much as it hurt, as much as he had hated her for what she did, with Kate dead and so much in pieces, seeing her was soothing, if just for a split second before the inevitable anger would flare.

He looked at her.

"Should we skip the 'you haven't changed a bit bull'?"

And just like that, she walked back into his life.

The End

* * *

_It has defnitely been a fun ride:)  
-Alexandra_


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